Lunaria was born. And with her, a new way of understanding that prayer.

I rewrote Invocation as an electronic lament.
No longer a tribal rite, but a post-human chant: gothic drum machines, abrasive synthesizers, distorted guitars, rarefied spaces.
And a synthetic voice that seems to come from a place outside of time — or from a time that no longer has a place.

But the meaning of the song has stayed the same.

“Tell me why / I feel nothing but pain / Over and over again.”

A prayer. But a mute one.
Not addressed to any specific god, nor to a saving entity.
Just a gesture, an inward movement directed upward — toward something that might still be listening.

We live in a world permeated by evil.
Not the spectacular, recognizable kind. But the more subtle one:
the kind that seeps into the folds of things,
that inhabits thoughts,
that disguises itself as daily life, as reason, as normality.
The kind of evil that cannot be defeated — only recognized. And, with effort, kept at bay.

Sometimes we feel we can’t do it alone.

“Now / I am calling your name / Let me / See the light once again / And save me from evil and pain.”

In this, Invocation is not an act of faith.
It is an act of resistance.
A way of saying: I feel like I’m falling apart, but I don’t want to disappear.
A cybernetic voice — Lunaria — sings what even a human being might have felt, but could never have said quite so clearly.

Because human beings, at times, are ashamed of their fragility.
Machines are not.
And in this, the voice of Lunaria Payne becomes more human than us.

—

Invocation is available on all platforms.
The official video is online.
But above all, Invocation is a fragment of our inner time.
A mirror in which to look — if only to remember that we are not alone in feeling what we feel. 🖤