Mr. James Lileks:

We hear about [the Sun] having “quiet periods,” like an exhausted toddler who fell asleep in the car seat, but even when it’s demure it’s out there boiling with eternal fury, perhaps enraged that its dreams exceed its grasp. Perhaps it would like nothing more than to burn everything as it burns, to see that mocking fool Neptune boiled away, that arrogant green mote blasted black, rival Jupiter stripped naked and reduced to a sizzling rock, a pretender to the throne unhorsed. At the center of every solar system, perhaps, there’s not a benevolent disc that paints the world with light and heat, but a raging devil shouting its hate wordlessly across the void. We, who cannot hear, assume good intentions, and bid him a nightly farewell, confident he will be on our side tomorrow. All the while he’s corking up a plan. A nova? Nothing more than a star’s triumphant cry. I’ll show you! I’ll show you all!

Every civilization that has ever, and will ever, exist in this galaxy or the millions of galaxies in the heavens, revolves around a suicide bomber.

Makes the Sun seem positively Miltonian, doesn’t he?  And on a day like today (and, even worse, tomorrow), it’s an image to which I can heartily relate.