The Japanese have a pithy expression aimed at avoiding the verbal quagmire of the highly volatile freedom of speech, with the liberty to interpret any exchange in a deeply personalized manner to be taken every which way, and loose—口は災いの元—kuchi wa wazawai no moto.

Many moons ago, an outstanding filter was gifted from beloved Muse, however, in the heat of verbal battles, inside the plethora of indistinguishable incomprehensible mundane extraordinarily trite themes—oral decorum becomes distorted in an all around ugly scene.

Is it kind, necessary, and true—internalizing this san-ten-setto leads to no regret, now a Master communicator and orator, when understanding what lies beyond the wisdom of commonsense.

The urge to merge—Kind-Necessary-True—with Form–Order–Process—leaves not much left, but one small step—and without further ado—a gift from us to you—the evolution of creative communication solutions.

When this highly sophisticated protocol is ignored, an overabundance of anguish, pain, and their manipulative nefarious friend, mental torture arrive with the preachers and the choir.

A deeply emotional serenade, a skipping record playing the same old song over and over again—being chided while guided—excruciating punishment meted out, it’s a matter of course—brought to task for blatant disregard of the cordial civility enshrined in Japanese communication protocol.

Annihilate incessant amplification, and its worse mate, cacophony—a manifestation of a viral infestation, consuming a narrowly defined spectrum of a decaying humanoid mind.

The dissonant discord of raspy-throated humanoid noise pollution is reflected in the failure of modern communication systems—cans of germs create fantastical delusion couched as the verified solutions according to the forked-tongued servile minions.

Mitigate the sulphuric acid taste of astringent verbiage, the toxic waste pit kind, moribund products of linguistically decaying artifacts still haunting modern primordial man.

The Japanese innately know the mouth is the fountain of all disasters—more often than not, the Japanese default to the standard protocol of tatemae—maintaining a facade of socially constructed harmony—as it goes—so life flows—internalize this to see—you too can think like the Japanese—a rock-solid 100% money-back guarantee.

This could really be why the Japanese communication protocol is a game of hidden meanings, inside subtle intonation, ambiguity, and the paramount societal position of each Japanese.

Bound to ancient esoteric communication protocol embedded inside what it means to be Japanese, expressed via extraordinarily beautiful non-verbal communication tools with the ability to reach deep into the past via the culturally rich kanji.

For within the Japanese zone they have a visceral historical precedence, strict enforcement of their communication protocol—know your position while edifying all—make sure to not lose your head—the mouth is the source of disaster—that is all.

Once upon a time in Edo Japan, a slip of the tongue got the sideways glance to be met with a visceral real feel of the renowned samurai steel.

A phacken bloody mess, early death, returning to the bosom of the tutelar deity of your neo-clan—the disasters spewing from the mouth flowing to the final destiny.

All disasters spewing from uncontrollable pie-holes—leads to a mediocre destinations for those who fail to gain a semblance of control—loose lips elicit the markings of an untamed beast, and the resultant bore, bears out the cold hard facts—your life is an all-around abject failure—start from the beginning again.

Coming from a long line of clever witty conversationalists, gabbers extraordinaire—some innate traits can never be changed, thus, those in this whimsical conversation class must reframe cultural communication codes by internalizing the spirit of the word for they lurk everywhere and hold one of the keys to mastery—this is the way.

Making the transition from a loudmouth full of self opinionated news-cycle driven—brainwashing runs deep, and in this, there is leeway for a slight modicum of forgiveness.

In the realm of humor, disaster from the mouth is always waiting like a dim-witted smartypants anticipating a second chance to ruin the perfect day—lurking inside the shadows of a former-self, just one innocuous blunder away.

Engaging strangers at Meiji Shrine with Sunshine Lover on a brilliant sunny day, an Occxie lass from the British Isles inside the conversation actually said:

Unfiltered Princess said “How about you?”

xybersensei replied: “Here since arriving in 1987 at the age of 23.”

To which the unfiltered princess then sullenly replied: “Why would you live here?!?!?”

In the days of yore, she would have been eviscerated with an unfiltered reply, a common tedious myopic Occxie chick, absent of any wisdom, not even one small pearl, her mind trapped inside a minuscule world.

This is where the filter kicked in, mitigating a tip of the tongue tart wise-guy reply—at long last, the acrid tongue finally reigned in—one giant leap on the road to becoming what Muse has in store to explore throughout the nooks and crannies of the phantasmagorical portals residing within.

The burning question now on the beloved readers’ mind is:

What would you have said if you had allowed yourself the freedom to opine:

The answer is clear for those who care to be:

I never wanted to become someone like you—not kind, nor necessary, nonetheless true.