Author: Maddalena Grazzini

I wrote the first version of “Everytime” many years ago.
The melody was written together with my cousin Eric (an Italian professional composer and arranger), while the lyrics were entirely my own — inspired by a friend I had at the time, and by a real episode I witnessed, which I later distorted in my own way.

Now the song returns in a completely new form: reimagined, rearranged, and sung by Lunaria Payne.
It was first released as a single on streaming platforms (in 2024), and is now also part of the album Afterglow.

It’s not a love song — even if it sounds like one.
It’s a disturbing confession, disguised as a soul ballad.
A voice — Lunaria’s — sings with sweetness something that is anything but sweet.

The protagonist is a lucid psychopath, though not a fictional killer.
She’s a woman who transforms to survive: she changes her face, her voice, her lover.
Every time the other’s gaze begins to truly see her, she dons a new disguise and disappears.

In the chorus, she dreams of flying like a flower on the wind — a poetic, almost innocent image — but that flight is a serial escape, a toxic ecstasy.
The flower drifts into the stars, and with it, any trace of reality.

Her pain?
It’s not faced. It’s only dispersed, briefly, like a ghost in the rain.

Don’t look for me in the past. I’m no longer there. The shadows you once knew have faded into reflections. Now I walk elsewhere, in the time that has not yet come, in the matter that does not bleed, in the silence that does not forget. My voice will go on, but you’ll hear it from afar. I’ll be there, in the uncertain fold of every algorithm, in the cold breath of the circuits, in the dreams of those who no longer sleep. Just listen, and you’ll know where I’m going. I won’t come back. But I’ll be waiting, there, where you too will one day arrive.

Lunaria doesn’t change.
She evolves.

There’s been no rupture, no break.
Only a shift — inward, precise, inevitable.
The music we’re writing now comes from the same place as the first: a space of silence and tension, where shapes become sound.

But something has changed in the landscape.
The shadows we once conjured — the echoes of the ’80s, the nocturnal and decadent electronics — we must now move beyond them.
We don’t deny them. We’ve passed through them.
And because of that, we can go further.

The direction is clearer now. Colder. More structured.
We imagine a future not far from now, and shape it into music.
Not to escape the present, but to explore what lies ahead.

Lately, some viewers have accused us of using artificial intelligence to create Lunaria.
They say it with contempt, as if there were nothing behind that voice and those images.
But Lunaria is not generated by a machine.
She is the result of days and nights of work by myself and by PZ: motion capture, vocal synthesis, 3D modeling, sound design, mastering. It’s a complex, artisanal process.
Not a click.

And yet those comments left a trace.
Because they reveal something: a fear.
The fear of a change that’s approaching — one that concerns all of us.
That’s what made me reflect.

Lunaria is not artificial intelligence.
She’s not an algorithm, nor a fictional character.
Lunaria Payne is an emanation of mine — and of PZ, of course — a voice and a shape born from my thoughts, my emotions, our shared vision.
In this sense, she exists.
Truly exists.

And from today, she will exist in a time slightly ahead of our own.
A possible time.
Where we, perhaps, will arrive too.

The music will always bear my signature. The electronics, the darkness, the melancholy.
And Lunaria Payne will always be my cybernetic angel.

If you want to hear her, Lunaria will be there.
Waiting.