The word "zero" has been lingering in my mind for a long time.

In Flipper's Guitar's *Camera Talk* (Dr. Head's World Tower), the phrase "Going Zero" appears. Toward zero. It might just be a simple English phrase, yet somehow, those words uniquely remain.

Taiyo Matsumoto has a boxing manga called *ZERO*. Boxing is a sport where the body is shaved down to its absolute limits. Punch, get punched, stand up, fall down, and stand up again. Beyond technique or victory and defeat, there lies a fundamental question: to what extent can the body remain itself?

And in Japanese, there is the word "Reisen" (Zero Fighter). Formally, it is the Type 0 Carrier-based Fighter, where "Rei" (Zero) is merely a symbol taken from the last digit of the imperial year. Yet, as a word, "Reisen" retains a different resonance. Lightness, speed, beauty, and an irreversible disappearance.

Zero, ZERO, 零, 0. They are not the same. But somehow, they resonate with one another.

Zero is not mere emptiness. Saying it means "nothing" is not enough. Rather, zero is the space after something has vanished, and the space before something begins. That which remains at the very end when everything is shaved away, shaved away. A silence before meaning arises. A state before a name is given. Or, a simple point that remains after all names have peeled off. Zero is not the end; perhaps it is the silence before meaning takes form.

In elementary school, I researched gravestones for my independent research project. Looking back, I was an odd child, but I feel there was already something there.

Names are carved into gravestones. Dates of birth and dates of death are etched. People try to leave behind on stone the proof that someone existed in this world. But standing before a gravestone, what exists there is not just a name. Rather, what failed to become a name is far larger. The sky that person looked at, the streets they walked, the things they ate, the words they couldn't say to anyone, the dreams they forgot. Countless small moments recorded by no one. A gravestone is a record, but at the same time, it is the contour of what could not be recorded. There, I feel a sense of drawing closer to zero.

Living things eventually fade. Voices, bodies, and memories gradually grow thin. Yet they do not disappear entirely. They remain within someone as a landscape, as a scent, as a reaction rather than words.

Music is close to this as well. A song ends, and the sound goes quiet. But it does not disappear completely. It lingers in the ears, remains in the body, and alters the quality of the ensuing silence. Music is not composed solely of the time it is playing. Rather, what remains after the sound has finished might be the true essence of the piece itself.

Going Zero. Music heading toward zero. It is not music heading toward destruction, nor music that empties oneself, nor music that erases everything. Rather, it is music that shaves away unnecessary meaning. Genre, era, trends, reviews, sales, charts, who was listening, who was influenced—all of these are temporarily stripped away. And at the very end, for some reason, a single point remains where the body still reacts. Perhaps that is what zero is.

I think my attraction to Taiyo Matsumoto's *ZERO* comes from the fact that it contains something more than just a story of victory. It is not a story of becoming strong, nor a story of winning. Rather, it is a story where strength itself approaches its limit. The body is shaved down, words become scarce, and the narrative grows thin. Beyond that, the outline of a human being simply standing remains. Zero is also the limit of the body. A place that can no longer be explained with words. A place where no more meaning can be added. There, one has no choice but to simply stand.

There is a similar perilousness in the word "Reisen." It overlaps the beauty of technology with the memory of war. Weight reduction, speed, cruising range, a body heading toward the sky. Yet, beyond that lie the state, death, kamikaze, and loss. Beauty and disappearance are contained within the exact same word. Thus, the character "零" (Zero) is not just a number. It holds a sense of irreversibility.

Zero is also a dangerous word. It can reduce human beings to nothing. It can turn lives into statistics. It can become the violence of concluding that everything should simply be reset.

But at the same time, zero is a necessary place. Before starting something, there are times when we must return there once. Losing words. Stopping pretending to understand. Not rushing to construct meaning. Not yet naming, not yet choosing, not yet deciding. What exists there is not a blank space, but a state of waiting.

Zero is similar to HOLD. Not acting, not judging. However, it is not stopped. It is a state of preserving the field before something arises, without destroying it. Silence exists before meaning is born. Whether one can wait for that silence. Whether one can refrain from immediate interpretation, or from turning it into a narrative. Heading toward zero might mean descending into that very place.

There is a lightness in Flipper's Guitar's music. There are references, playfulness, and a pop surface. Yet, beneath that lightness, there is always a sense of disappearance somewhere. The world can be referenced. Styles can be chosen. Symbols can be rearranged. But what lies at the center? Having flown lightly to the end, one suddenly touches zero.

Perhaps that was a 90s sensation. After abundance, after high economic growth, after the bubble, after the grand narratives of meaning collapsed. While everything became style, reference, and consumption, the "absence of a center" conversely came into view. Sounding that absence of a center, not as mere emptiness but as music. For me, that might have been Going Zero.

Zero is not merely dark. Zero also possesses transparency. Because you no longer hold anything, it is also a place where you can begin once more. However, this is not a bright new departure, nor a hopeful starting line. It is a quieter place. After you have run out of things to say. After you have lost something. After explanations have run dry. Even after you no longer quite understand what it is you wanted to do. Even so, your ears alone are still listening to something. At that moment, music is playing near zero.

Music heading toward zero is not music that fades away. It is music that is still playing beside that which disappears.

A child standing before a gravestone. A body continuing to stand in the ring. An aircraft heading toward the sky. A pop song playing in the city. Symbols referenced, consumed, and forgotten. And, deep inside, a silence that has no name yet. For me, these converge into the single point of "0."

Zero is not the end. But it is not the beginning either. Zero lies just before it. Before meaning arises, before it becomes a narrative, before explaining it to someone else. A place I do not yet understand myself.

Perhaps I have been looking at that place all along. Ever since I looked at gravestones for my elementary school research project. Ever since I reacted to things that fade away while listening to music. Ever since I was somehow caught by the phrase "Going Zero."

Music heading toward zero. It is not heading toward nothingness. I believe it is about listening closely once again to the silence before meaning is born.

© SHIRO & Co.

First published: 2026-05-30