A dying star incinerates the depleted ruins of what we once called an atmosphere. Nameless shades of purple and orange scintillating in the refractive portend of glassware caustics.
Welcome to the

Ouroboros Café

Where booze is free, meaning is optional, and text is artisanally crafted from the eschatonic reality-fragments of hearsay and heresy.
Take a seat! My name's Ouro, and I think you'll like it here.