All suffer and none should have to. But why not? If suffering makes life seem more real or more abstract, both circumstances are infinitely more bearable than the disturbing reality of mundane work-to-live-then-die-bored life.

— Moonshine Noire

A radiant full moon of silver hangs in the black sky, between the veils of misty clouds.

— Moonshine Noire

As melancholia replaced the jarring of my invention, I sat. Unable to breathe in the smog I had created, unable to stand on my betraying legs, unable to howl at the heavens over my sordid soul. In this inferno, I became paroxysmal, my self-hatred, super paramount, numbness dulling the agony of such a devilish act, An iron curtain fell upon the surrounding world, or at least what I had left of it to be owned by the laconic eclipse. All the angels fled, disowning my prayers, the lurid world backed away, leaving me forsaken and detached, I could no longer hear the bombings, hear them fall, my own fabrication, only the dead air that came after, the intense silence. Cynical and paralyzed, I realized I had purloined a portion of Hell and given it to the unwilling Earth, Punishing those I had no right to punish, judging those I had no reason to condemn, destroying cities I had never set foot in. This is how I became Death, the destroyer of Worlds.

— Moonshine Noire

Don't ask me to pray, instead ask me to act.

— Moonshine Noire

...few truly understood how disheartening it was to be cut off from worlds so strange and distant they remained to us fantasies rather than distant realities, too surreal and foreign to be touched. Their minds were fixated on what they knew to be real, unable to create the atmospheres of the nebulous realms that lay just beyond our reach, just beyond the dimming horizon, our celestial limits.

— Moonshine Noire

(...) ha! What is hope? A butterfly in a box of demons, and nothing escapes the dark untainted, a mockery of politics and greed stamped with treason and dipped in myths and force-fed brainwashing going off after a time for the grand massacre of faith, humanity, and still we search, scorched feet for life but find only fake plastic trees satirical, ludicrous, and ironic

— Moonshine Noire

His room was a sickly dual-tone of crimson and charcoal, like an Untitled Rothko, the colors bleeding into each other horribly and then rather serenely. The overall effect was overwhelmingly unapologetic, but it grew on you like a wart on your nose you didn't realize it was a part of your identity until one day it simply was. His room was his identity. Fiercely bold, avant-garde but never monotonous. He was red, he was black, he was bored, and he was fire. At least to me, he seemed like fire. A tornado of fire that burned all in its wake leaving only the wretched brightness of annihilation. His room was where he charmed and disarmed us. We were his playthings. Nobody plays with fire and leaves unscarred. The fire soon seeps into chard and soot. The colors of his soul, his aura, and probably his heart if he didn't stop smoking.

— Moonshine Noire

I could be that tenebrous enigma that floods out your words with sighs and frustration.

— Moonshine Noire

I could be the ceaseless mist that fogs your colorless eyes when you're lost in your universes.

— Moonshine Noire

I could be the drumbeat in your chest like madness before a storm swirling restlessly.

— Moonshine Noire