Jupiter Plays the Afterhours

The cosmos dims its house lights—nebulas cooling to embers, comets kicking off their fiery shoes. The gas giant leans into the piano, its rings brushing the keys like a slow drag on a cigarette. Metallic storms hum basslines in the deep, while Europa’s ice cracks in time, a reluctant snare. The asteroids? They’re just here for the free drinks, rattling ice in gravity’s lowball glass. Saturn requests a ballad, but Jupiter’s already lost in the blues, bending light like a horn player leaning into a sour note. Dawn’s a long taxi ride away. The Milky Way’s last call is a smear of stardust on the mirror. Even the black hole in the corner’s nodding along, sipping on swallowed light. Everybody’s got a seat at this bar. Nobody remembers how they got here.