You're watching a filmmaker use animation like a musical instrument, not a delivery system for story. Every frame is built to move with the score, not illustrate it. This is what happens when someone stops asking "what should happen next" and starts asking "what should this moment feel like," and the answer is something you've never seen move quite like this before.
A composer sits alone in a studio, watching sound become visible. Lines of color trace across the screen, each note manifesting as pure movement: gentle curves for strings, sharp angles for percussion, waves that build and collapse with orchestral swells. There's no plot here, no characters caught in conflict. Instead, the film asks you to experience music as something you can see, to feel how melody and rhythm have shape and weight and direction. Kuri Youji's experimental approach strips away narrative entirely, leaving only the marriage of sound and image. What emerges is meditative and hypnotic, a visual symphony that rewards patient watching. You don't follow a story so much as inhabit a moment of pure artistic translation, where a composer's inner world becomes external form.