It is dark in this jazz club. It’s a small room so everything and everyone is close. Not that there are many patrons there at all. There are one or two sitting at tables near the stage, maybe a few in the back. They’ve all been there longer than they can remember/ as long as the space between them. There’s a spotlight on the stage and some shine on the glasses on the tables and at the bar—but it’s so dark beyond that it feels like this bar could be the only thing left in this dimension. Like if you open the old wooden door under the Exit sign you would see nothing but a void of blackness and stars. 
Come to think of it, maybe this Jessica Rabbit is the soul of the sun. And her voice is an astral wind, blowing across this ghost town of a worn down solar system. Everything inside is probably just a glimmer of something that was extinguished a thousand years ago. It’s just memories, and her voice suspended across the space and time it takes for light to travel.

Chlosepher

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