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The sun turns a blind eye to this sort of thing, although she shouldn’t, after what happened to Ceres.

At least Saturn got Jupiter to give him a ring, although after all this time they still haven’t set a date. Whatever Pluto and Charon are doing together, it got them disowned, and now Venus is spurning the advances of her opposite number. He’s calling her bluff–looking elsewhere.

Mars makes it clear, by the waggle in his orbital axis, just what he would like to do if they ever happened to fall into each other’s gravity wells.

Earth blushes. Millions die.


One night, while Pluto sleeps with his eyes open, somebody walks past Cerberus into the underworld: a little prince to see a king.

Sisyphus doesn’t hear the tiny record-scratch voice, but when he trudges back to the bottom, there’s a bumpy green-and-yellow ball there instead of his rock. He tries to roll it up the hill. Instead, he rolls up the hill.

Sisyphus rolls up souls and pomegranate trees. He rolls up Charon and, soon after, the Acheron itself. He rolls and laughs, free and wild, while under him the katamari trembles with the heartbeat of a star.