“Oblivion” is the first glimpse of a future that no longer belongs to us.
Lunaria Payne doesn’t sing from here.
She sings from a time that doesn’t exist yet — or perhaps never will.

It’s a transmission — a vocal signal from an era where memory is treated as system instability.
In the world Lunaria comes from, remembering is a fault: a disturbance, a drift.
Fragments of the past are erased frame by frame, rewritten by protocols of silence.
Those who hold on too long… vanish.
They become a glitch.

“Oblivion” tells that story.
Not through rebellion, but through a whisper — the voice of someone who’s already beginning to fade, yet still wants to leave a trace.

Lunaria doesn’t scream.
She doesn’t accuse.
She doesn’t plead.
She simply sings.
With a voice that’s calm, distant, and haunting.

And here lies the paradox: while the lyrics speak of loss and erasure, the music moves through an electronic soul atmosphere, rich with echoes of R&B.
The sound is warm — but it doesn’t comfort.

This contrast is deliberate.
It marks the first step in Lunaria Payne’s evolution toward her final form: the genre we call Cyber Noir.
A style imagined as post-modern, glitchy, electronic and cold — yet harmonically rooted in the blues.
A sonic space where the warmth of the soul drifts through digital ruins and luminous absences.

“Oblivion” is a warning.
It’s the beginning of a larger narrative world, one that will unfold through upcoming videos, new tracks…

And for those of you reading to the end — I’m also working on something special: a transmedia narrative project, crossing sound, text, and vision.
I can’t say more for now, but I will, soon.