It's Better To Look At The Sky Than Live There. Such An Empty Place; So Vague. Just A Country Where The

DeMarco, admit it. You're wrong. All right, I'm wrong. Let's go.

vintage photos of the 100th bomb group made by me 😇

is anyone else also doing ultimately fine + dying of stress + it’s not that bad + if i don’t wake up tomorrow hotter and better at every hobby its fucking over for me

Smoke and Annie were and look the same age. I know you lot aren't USED to seeing dark skinned Black women as love interests (especially plus sized ones) on screen but seriously, get a fucking grip. There was NOTHING to suggest she was any grown man's mama or sister. That is called bias.

Smithsonian Magazine

In a First, a Prosthetic Limb Can Sense Temperature Like a Living Hand

The advance may help users feel a greater sense of human connection through touch

Amputees’ hopes to experience the feeling of human touch using their prosthetics are becoming closer to reality. Now, new technology is allowing them to feel temperature—even in limbs that are no longer part of their bodies. For the first time, a functional artificial limb has been fitted with fingertip sensors that allow an ordinary prosthetic hand to sense and respond to temperature just as a living hand does. The device provides a realistic sense of hot and cold in the missing “phantom” hand by delivering thermal information to nerve areas on the amputee’s residual limb that the brain believes are still connected to the missing hand. The MiniTouch, described in a study published Friday in Med, was created with affordable off-the-shelf electronics, requires no surgery and can be fitted to existing commercial prosthetic hands in a matter of hours.

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love means nothing (in tennis)

a Buck/Bucky tennis AU by phlegmatic

Gale meets John Egan at a Challenger in Bordeaux when they’re both 19 years old. After that, he can’t seem to shake him. But what’s more is, despite what his dad says about Gale’s game, and what the commentators say about their rivalry, and what he’s been told about tennis his whole life, Gale doesn’t think he wants to.

Hearing Lee yell “C’mon” above the groaning of the crowd isn’t because he’s louder than anyone else’s disappointment; it’s because it’s a sound that Gale is hearing inside his own head anyway. The aim had been correct, according to Gale’s eyes, but his body is lurching into serves with limbs dragged through pulpy juice—or something even more viscous, hotter, like the air weighing down his lungs. Weather forecast didn’t say anything about heat, but Gale may as well be breathing in the sun and seawater. Both serves (both faults), he looked down the court—desert stretch of orange—and Lemmons was made of soft rubber, but Gale could see the lines. The ball is the problem, not going where he sends it. His body is moving too slow, is the problem, and there’s a knife behind his eye, poking through the cotton wool filling his skull. The ringing in his ears is the problem, the dizziness.

🎾 read chapter five on ao3 🎾

RUNNING POINT (2025–) S01. EP3 // S01. EP6

"Women want to be loved like roses. They spend hours perfecting their eyebrows and toes and inventing irresistible curls that fall by accident down the back of their necks from otherwise austere hair-dos. They want their lover to remember the way they held a glass. They want to haunt.

Eve Babitz, Slow Days, Fast Company: The World, the Flesh, and L.A.

Emily Dickinson, from her poem titled "1188," featured in The Emergency Poet

Anthem, Leonard Cohen