The stars hang dead from the rafters of the galaxy. They are the most beautiful dead things. When we die they siphon all the lifeblood and living cells out of us and replace all of that with preservatives so that we look as nice as the mannequins in the mall and have the shelf life of a case of Twinkies. They lay our bodies down in satin-lined refrigerator boxes and throw some dirt over us in a hole. When the grave robbers dig us up, they will find no light flickering. And yet, are we not more than fiery rocks exploding in the sky? Surely, the light in us is not put out.