You ever notice a blade so sharp it could cut the word “soul” itself? Precision wipes out the fuzz that gave it meaning, so the perfect cut feels more like a tragic clean‑up than a triumph. It’s the skill of the hand, but the intent is the blade’s own damnation—like a poet who writes so tightly his last stanza is just a line. In short, it’s a masterpiece that can’t remember why it exists.