u/Busy_Inevitable784

I have recently got myself a cadenza 2. Stock eartips came with them however caused me a lot of problems. My ears are asymmetrical and the left one is smaller than the R one. I can fit M size in my right ear and haven't had any problems with that , though the left one neither fits the M nor the S. M creates a pressure imbalance and it irritates so much. So much so that I had sinus and the whole of my left side part felt that.

I want to get myself a comfortable pair of eartips so i can do a longer session without any pain. I do have credit and some points left on Headphonezone, if you can then please recommend some good and comfortable eartips that don't mess with the sound of iem.

​

The Shaping

It was a windy evening in Swarnim Park. Fallen leaves lay scattered across the dirt path, the driest ones scraping along the ground as if refusing to go unnoticed.

As dusk settled, the birds returned — though not to the centrepieces. Those trees stood too trimmed, too symmetrical, too finished for anything to nest in. The yellow lights around them flickered on, drawing the eyes of every passerby, holding them there, making them trace every curve the gardener had made. They were perfect. Perhaps too perfect for their kind.

In the middle of all this stood a sapling. Branches reaching in uneven directions, untouched by any blade.

"Untidy," someone muttered, walking past.

The sapling didn't like that. But in two days it would be shaped for the first time, and that thought settled something in its chest.

Night deepened. The yellow lights dimmed to almost nothing. A half-lit moon took over.

"They loved you so much," the sapling said to the old tree, its words carried softly on the wind.

The old tree said nothing. Maybe it was waiting for a stronger gust. The sapling, never very patient, tried again.

"Do you think they'll shape me like you?" A pause. "They admired your shape so much."

A long silence passed between them.

"Indeed," the old tree finally said. "Admiration is a pleasant thing." Another pause. "Though it is a strange trade."

The sapling didn't quite follow. "Someone can definitely rustle," it replied cheekily.

A faint creak passed through the old branches above.

For a while, both stood listening to the dry leaves scraping softly across the dirt path.

Then the old tree spoke again.

"Do you see those trees near the boundary wall?"

The sapling looked toward the darker corners of the garden. Crooked branches stretched unevenly beneath the weak moonlight. Birds moved quietly between them.

"They look messy," the sapling said honestly.

"They do."

Silence settled again.

"But every season," the old tree said softly, "the birds return to them."

The sapling glanced back at the centrepiece trees glowing beneath their dim yellow lights.

"They never come here."

"No," the old tree replied. "Not anymore."

The sapling was quiet for a moment.

"But people love this part of the garden more. They love you."

"They do."

"So is it a bad thing?"

The old tree's branches shifted gently in the cold wind.

"No," it answered. "It isn't."

The sapling went quiet for the first time that night.

Far away, the sound of birds settling into crooked branches echoed faintly through the dark.

After a long while, the old tree spoke once more.

"It is only difficult sometimes," it said, "to remember which parts of you grew naturally — and which were taught to grow that way."

The sapling did not fully understand the words.

But for reasons it could not explain, the garden no longer felt as warm as it had earlier that evening.

The night passed as quietly as it had begun. The sapling lingered on what the old tree had said.

Morning came with the sound of clicking blades. The gardener worked carefully, almost lovingly. A cut here. Another there. The sapling stood through it all, proud. This was what it had wanted.

By evening, it looked beautiful.

Balanced. Clean. Understandable. Aesthetically pleasing.

People slowed on their walks home to admire it.

And somewhere beneath all that careful shaping, the sapling felt something it did not yet have words for. The old tree's words were still there, somewhere deep, beneath the new edges.

But the old tree said nothing.

Trees, after all, are not given the privilege of choosing what they become.

Note: I have used claude for rephrasing some words that I don't know and also for the grammar correction. The core idea of aesthetics and identity and how they both interact with each other is mine.

If you have read throughout this , I thank you with my heart out.

​

The Shaping

It was a windy evening in Swarnim Park. Fallen leaves lay scattered across the dirt path, the driest ones scraping along the ground as if refusing to go unnoticed.

As dusk settled, the birds returned — though not to the centrepieces. Those trees stood too trimmed, too symmetrical, too finished for anything to nest in. The yellow lights around them flickered on, drawing the eyes of every passerby, holding them there, making them trace every curve the gardener had made. They were perfect. Perhaps too perfect for their kind.

In the middle of all this stood a sapling. Branches reaching in uneven directions, untouched by any blade.

"Untidy," someone muttered, walking past.

The sapling didn't like that. But in two days it would be shaped for the first time, and that thought settled something in its chest.

Night deepened. The yellow lights dimmed to almost nothing. A half-lit moon took over.

"They loved you so much," the sapling said to the old tree, its words carried softly on the wind.

The old tree said nothing. Maybe it was waiting for a stronger gust. The sapling, never very patient, tried again.

"Do you think they'll shape me like you?" A pause. "They admired your shape so much."

A long silence passed between them.

"Indeed," the old tree finally said. "Admiration is a pleasant thing." Another pause. "Though it is a strange trade."

The sapling didn't quite follow. "Someone can definitely rustle," it replied cheekily.

A faint creak passed through the old branches above.

For a while, both stood listening to the dry leaves scraping softly across the dirt path.

Then the old tree spoke again.

"Do you see those trees near the boundary wall?"

The sapling looked toward the darker corners of the garden. Crooked branches stretched unevenly beneath the weak moonlight. Birds moved quietly between them.

"They look messy," the sapling said honestly.

"They do."

Silence settled again.

"But every season," the old tree said softly, "the birds return to them."

The sapling glanced back at the centrepiece trees glowing beneath their dim yellow lights.

"They never come here."

"No," the old tree replied. "Not anymore."

The sapling was quiet for a moment.

"But people love this part of the garden more. They love you."

"They do."

"So is it a bad thing?"

The old tree's branches shifted gently in the cold wind.

"No," it answered. "It isn't."

The sapling went quiet for the first time that night.

Far away, the sound of birds settling into crooked branches echoed faintly through the dark.

After a long while, the old tree spoke once more.

"It is only difficult sometimes," it said, "to remember which parts of you grew naturally — and which were taught to grow that way."

The sapling did not fully understand the words.

But for reasons it could not explain, the garden no longer felt as warm as it had earlier that evening.

The night passed as quietly as it had begun. The sapling lingered on what the old tree had said.

Morning came with the sound of clicking blades. The gardener worked carefully, almost lovingly. A cut here. Another there. The sapling stood through it all, proud. This was what it had wanted.

By evening, it looked beautiful.

Balanced. Clean. Understandable. Aesthetically pleasing.

People slowed on their walks home to admire it.

And somewhere beneath all that careful shaping, the sapling felt something it did not yet have words for. The old tree's words were still there, somewhere deep, beneath the new edges.

But the old tree said nothing.

Trees, after all, are not given the privilege of choosing what they become.

Note: I have used claude for rephrasing some words that I don't know and also for the grammar correction. The core idea of aesthetics and identity and how they both interact with each other is mine.

If you have read throughout this , I thank you with my heart out.

​

The Shaping

It was a windy evening in Swarnim Park. Fallen leaves lay scattered across the dirt path, the driest ones scraping along the ground as if refusing to go unnoticed.

As dusk settled, the birds returned — though not to the centrepieces. Those trees stood too trimmed, too symmetrical, too finished for anything to nest in. The yellow lights around them flickered on, drawing the eyes of every passerby, holding them there, making them trace every curve the gardener had made. They were perfect. Perhaps too perfect for their kind.

In the middle of all this stood a sapling. Branches reaching in uneven directions, untouched by any blade.

"Untidy," someone muttered, walking past.

The sapling didn't like that. But in two days it would be shaped for the first time, and that thought settled something in its chest.

Night deepened. The yellow lights dimmed to almost nothing. A half-lit moon took over.

"They loved you so much," the sapling said to the old tree, its words carried softly on the wind.

The old tree said nothing. Maybe it was waiting for a stronger gust. The sapling, never very patient, tried again.

"Do you think they'll shape me like you?" A pause. "They admired your shape so much."

A long silence passed between them.

"Indeed," the old tree finally said. "Admiration is a pleasant thing." Another pause. "Though it is a strange trade."

The sapling didn't quite follow. "Someone can definitely rustle," it replied cheekily.

A faint creak passed through the old branches above.

For a while, both stood listening to the dry leaves scraping softly across the dirt path.

Then the old tree spoke again.

"Do you see those trees near the boundary wall?"

The sapling looked toward the darker corners of the garden. Crooked branches stretched unevenly beneath the weak moonlight. Birds moved quietly between them.

"They look messy," the sapling said honestly.

"They do."

Silence settled again.

"But every season," the old tree said softly, "the birds return to them."

The sapling glanced back at the centrepiece trees glowing beneath their dim yellow lights.

"They never come here."

"No," the old tree replied. "Not anymore."

The sapling was quiet for a moment.

"But people love this part of the garden more. They love you."

"They do."

"So is it a bad thing?"

The old tree's branches shifted gently in the cold wind.

"No," it answered. "It isn't."

The sapling went quiet for the first time that night.

Far away, the sound of birds settling into crooked branches echoed faintly through the dark.

After a long while, the old tree spoke once more.

"It is only difficult sometimes," it said, "to remember which parts of you grew naturally — and which were taught to grow that way."

The sapling did not fully understand the words.

But for reasons it could not explain, the garden no longer felt as warm as it had earlier that evening.

The night passed as quietly as it had begun. The sapling lingered on what the old tree had said.

Morning came with the sound of clicking blades. The gardener worked carefully, almost lovingly. A cut here. Another there. The sapling stood through it all, proud. This was what it had wanted.

By evening, it looked beautiful.

Balanced. Clean. Understandable. Aesthetically pleasing.

People slowed on their walks home to admire it.

And somewhere beneath all that careful shaping, the sapling felt something it did not yet have words for. The old tree's words were still there, somewhere deep, beneath the new edges.

But the old tree said nothing.

Trees, after all, are not given the privilege of choosing what they become.

Note: I have used claude for rephrasing some words that I don't know and also for the grammar correction. The core idea of aesthetics and identity and how they both interact with each other is mine.

If you have read throughout this , I thank you with my heart out.

hey audiophiles , I am pretty new to this hobby. I owned red lions for 5 days and then returned them. simply because they are getting muddier, and i was seeing a lot of qc issues being reported I got panicked and returned them.

i have decided to increase my budget from the red lions and now i am currently eyeing on

1. kiwi ears cadenza ll

2. kefine klean sv

i am not fixated on a specific genre. I now know that iem could unlock the new realm of music and I very much want to explore things. generally i listen to Bollywood, hiphop , gazhals, english pop , some indie songs and pretty much everything that is going viral and kinda liked by ear.other than that i watch tv shows a lot , I mean ott content in general.

that is going to be my main two use cases.

i have been through many reviews and opinions, even though initially I like kefine klean sv , it's aesthetic and the nozzles tuning, through the review they appear less bassy and sibbiliant. also reviews make them more technical and less emotional, although I like the clarity and sepration in the reviews , they claim it to be mechanical and that is what holding me back , If I am not able to cry at 2 am with random song I have found on reel , remembering my highschool crush then what's the point .

about cadenza ll , reviews claim it to be compact sound stage and average at imaging, also I have seen some reviews about their average separation also. I liked the punchy and rumbly bass , which doesn't bleed and is tight , highlighted midrange, neutral and slight warm tonality and smooth out treble ( tho i don't know if I am too sensitive to treble or not , I am playing it safe). but the thing is the average imaging , sound stage and separation is holding me back.

the post has become too long , and if you have been through all of it , I am grateful to your whole bloodline , seriously.