by Chris Swindell The sun, small and white and nearly dead, is a pinprick in the sky. If it were alone, even at noon it would look like nothing more than a fat star. But, oh, it’s not alone. The firmament behind the guttering white dwarf is a riot of luminous colors, reds and pinks, electric blues and neon greens. It’s a small child’s painting, all reckless smears and wild swirls, lit up and hung across the heavens.

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