"Have you ever counted the stars," asks Venus overly primly,
"because it seems terribly rude to interrupt their twilight union?"
"As if their celestial alignment would affect your tea leaves?"
murmurs the Moon with a tangled smirk and an outlandishly large monocle.
Somewhere between the Arcturian poetry and Solar bureaucracy, a gentle giggle looms.
"Honestly, if I were Saturn, I wouldn't circulate around such pretentious orbs,"
chortles a comet named Halley.
Ponder the ethos of distant galaxies while playing a game of "Twilight Limerick." Old Mercury's
rendition of the sly thrill in Martian jazz clubs remains a fast-growing urban myth; however,
admissions into the meteor dance circle are always open—gravitational pull or pie charts be damned.