In my little ranting rave about Hannibal and its spectacularness–
Absolutely not a word.
–I indulged in a bit of filigree about the night’s length and terror and ruthless tenacity: this darkness may have to give, but only according to its schedule. We silly primates may have split the atom, digitized the Library of Alexandria, and punched smallpox in it endoplasmic reticulum, but we don’t have a vote on when dawn shows up; never will. That mean old sun is like Phil’s boners: it keeps its own counsel, rises once a day, and shouldn’t be looked at directly. Also, the sun just opened a restaurant in Northern California as a front to steal internal organs from undocumented busboys.
Way too early for this level of libel.
But for all the Sun’s awe-inspiring belligerence, it can be explained, dissected, solved for X. Just a big ball of fusion slamming M’s together at the speed of C (and C again), producing E. Add a bit of Brownian motion through the convective zone and you’re done, pencils down.
So, if–and we’re speaking hypothetically as always–you’re standing next to me watching the sucker rise over the Atlantic, do not say, “It’s a miracle,” because I will go Neil DeGrasse Tyson on your poorly-educated ass.