Beneath the glazed sunsets lies the blank canvas awaiting the drizzle of blood rain that will slowly, leisurely yet with poetic madness devour it's virtuousness. There's something ever so miserable about The Plenilune, it's as if the souls of the artists engage in wine appointments, they relish the omnipresent fragrance of revenge. Toasting a cheers to the faded moralists, that was The Plenilune, shrouded in antiquity and mystique awaiting it's witness. A repulsive mockery of a distinguished establishment. The Nameless Art Gallery.