You don't play it. You feed it.

There are no note keys. There is no instrument to press. The picture is the instrument: a star, a sweeping beam that is the bar, and whatever matter you throw into orbit. Ring means pitch. Angle means timing. Mass means voice — motes chime, stones pluck, giants speak in sub-bass, ringed giants breathe whole chords. When the beam crosses a body, it sounds. Because the orbits are real gravity, inner bodies lap outer ones and the pattern you built phases, drifts, and composes itself forever.

Every body is integrated live under central gravity — eccentric orbits bend their own pitch as their radius swings. Collisions merge mass into deeper voices. Feed a body to the star and it burns hotter: faster orbits, harder heartbeat. Hold empty space and a black hole grows under your finger, warping every orbit and every note toward it; let go and the collapse shockwave scatters the system. Overfeed the star and it goes nova. Hold WARP and time itself slows — physics, beam, and tape together.

Drag the star and you drag the whole system through the galaxy. The circle of fifths is painted out there as twelve nebulae — the direction you travel is the key you arrive in, and the sky's color turns with you. The system also drifts on its own, so the harmony wanders even when your hands are still. The star learns, too: every orbit you seed feeds an appetite histogram over the pitch rings, and its solar flares eject new matter into the rings you taught it to love.

dunl.app · instrument 03 · seed in URL — share it, same star, different sky