I need to practice again.
The sun, molten color, poured across the galaxy. In its heart, the sun is a painter. Its spirit boils with creative desire, desperate to share that deathly love. But, it is always tempered by the cold space around it, battled and defeated. It is kept in an empty jail cell, and what energy it has can only keep it alive. It has nothing to share but a broken, blue glass and the love of a small man.