I like to think that this Deinocheirus mirificus is strutting along to some seriously funky music.  

Scientists found the Deinocheirus’ giant arms in Mongolia 1965. Now they’ve figured out the body that goes with them, thanks to a Canadian paleontologist who managed to link an excavated sample with a poached fossil found in a Belgian shop.

GIF: Yuong-Nam Lee/Korea Institute of Geoscience and Mineral Resources

Photo: Paleontologist Altangerel Perle, with the Museum of Natural History in Ulan Bator, Mongolia, stands between the forearms of Deinocheirus. (Louie Psihoyos/Corbis)


Jeyne Poole wept so hysterically that Septa Mordane finally took her off to regain her composure, but Sansa sat with her hands folded in her lap, watching with a strange fascination. She had never seen a man die before. She ought to be crying too, she thought, but the tears would not come. Perhaps she had used up all her tears for Lady and Bran. It would be different if it had been Jory or Ser Rodrik or Father, she told herself. The young knight in the blue cloak was nothing to her, some stranger from the Vale of Arryn whose name she had forgotten as soon as she heard it. And now the world would forget his name too, Sansa realized; there would be no songs sung for him. That was sad.

Dean could no longer stand it. Watching Cas leave. To once again watch Cas walk away from him. They’d been here so many times, but Dean knew that it was never going to get less painful. Knew that it would never get easier. 

Cas had saved their asses during yet another case, witches this time, and currently they were back at the bunker and about to face the inevitable; another goodbye. Another unnecessary separation. 

“Call me if you need anything, Dean.” Cas said quietly, giving Dean a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his deep blue eyes. 

Dean swallowed thickly. Having Cas here in his room felt so right, but the idea of Cas leaving within now and a couple of minutes felt all kinds of wrong. Never would Dean get used to seeing Cas go, and so tonight, his rebellious heart simply refused to accept it. 

Cas was already turning around, away from Dean, the way he always did once the job was done and the day was saved. 

Stay… Please.” Dean’s voice sounded broken, even to his own ears, but he didn’t care. 

Just like he didn’t care that he was being selfish by wanting something for himself for once. And most of all, he no longer cared that the something he happened to want was Cas

Castiel froze. His hand had already been on the door handle, but he abruptly turned back towards Dean at the sound of his plea. 

“What?” Cas asked disbelievingly, directing his trademark squint at Dean, showing his confusion. 

“Stay.” Dean repeated calmly, feeling more confident now that he had made peace with what it was he truly wanted. “Stay here, with me… You said that if I needed anything, all I had to do was ask, right? Because what I need right now is you, Cas.” 

The look on Cas’ face was made of shock mixed with a small amount of awe, and something else that Dean could only label as lightness

As they stood there, gazes holding, Dean silently prayed that the official talk about what this all meant could be put off until tomorrow. For now he was exhausted, and all he wanted was to be with Cas. 

As always, Cas understood, easily picking up on what Dean wanted. He smiled softly, giving Dean a small nod. Dean exhaled in pure relief, then pulled Cas into his arms for a long hug, burying his face against Cas’ neck, breathing in his angel’s calming scent. 

And Castiel? He murmured gentle reassurances in Dean’s ear as his fingers aimlessly stroked through Dean’s hair.

“I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me, Dean… I need you too.”


And while whatever happens next…happens, I take you, Night Vale, to the weather!

*shows up months late with another ‘he is holding a cat’ thing* Tbh I started this because I wanted to create a dramatic setting and then put Cecil in light-up sketchers à la that one post but I was too lazy to color the whole thing, sO

I haven’t changed my bed sheets in months,
Maybe it’s because the smell of you still lingers on them,
If I breathe in hard enough it’s like you’re still here.
Sometimes when I wrap my blanket around my body I can still feel your arms pulling me desperately against you for warmth,
But you’re not here now.
These sheets have got me wishing for something that may never happen again.
—  I need to get rid of these strong reminders that you still exist

I rolled my eyes at first—another “men’s X” account—but upon further reflection I realized its accidental genius. While these accounts typically have some anonymous beautiful woman as their profile picture (or two, or less—just a pert butt, as often as not), nearly half the space in this photograph is given over to the Woman’s shadow. As Katsushika Hokusai masterfully demonstrated,the negative space of any image can be as powerful—if not more so—as the elements which are more overtly “present.” In Great Wave off Kanagawa, the titular wave is balanced by a symmetrical anti-wave made up of the darkened sky, a wave that dwarfs Mount Fuji within itself and threatens to swallow it entirely. In fact, a casual observer may not even realize that the mountain is present in this painting, taking its snow-caps for cresting surf.

And yet the wave itself is not diminished by this negative space—on the contrary, the penitent monks who prostrate themselves atop their boats in the salty borderland between sea and sky seem to be taking the only sensible course of action in the presence of this curling deity. At first glance, the dark shadow of the Woman seems to loom, predatory and threatening, in the negative space of the photograph. It is easy to superficially connect the shadow and the wave, but this would be a mistake. Is the juxtaposition truly threatening to the Woman? The wave creates the anti-wave, and the Woman creates the shadow.

Consider this: the top of the woman’s head is cropped, suggesting that the mundane dimensions of this photograph cannot hope to contain the infinity of her multitudinous selfhood; like the great wave, this form is just the aspect that crests at the frontier of the greater being. As the salty mini-waves curl at the edges of the great wave, and as the wave itself curls at the edge of the apocalyptic deluge that rides behind, the blonde locks that veil the Woman’s face, further demonstrating that her true self is beyond our access, are but an extension of her mundane physicality, which, while overwhelming to us, is merely the glimmering herald of her infinite power. 

By contrast, the shadow’s upper dimensions are known to us: upon close inspection, we can see the ribbon of undarkened wall between the top of the shadow’s head and the edge of the photograph. The perceptible tilt of the shadow’s head indicates the supplication of the shadow before the Woman. The Woman’s strong left shoulder declares a well of latent power, made more convincing by the fact that the shadow’s own left shoulder is not visible, obscured as it is by the potent visual reality of the Woman.

The blonde color of the Woman’s hair suggests to us that she is the source of light in the photograph; like the great wave, she is the distant power, she is also its potent aspect, and the shadowy presence created in the negative space is merely a trick of visual composition, an incidental eclipse she casts by positioning her physical aspect between the mundane world and the luminosity of her true, transcendent self. The shadows on her stomach are like the cycling darkness of the moon—nothing more than an illusion we experience as a result of our position in her antumbra.

So why does Mensconfidence choose this photograph to represent themselves? Because they know, whether consciously or not, that they are the shadow. They are the flickering nothing, the indistinct image of a buffalo cast momentarily on the cave wall by the hand passing between it and the raging bonfire. Consider further: “Mensconfidence.” Two words, crushed together into meaninglessness, no apostrophe to indicate possession or selfhood.

Hokusai began Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji with a print that paradoxically suggested that the mountain was a mere ripple cresting on the edge of a sweeping and unstoppable force. By the same method, Mensconfidence (consciously or otherwise) shows us that the shadowy pall of misogyny is merely the protrusion of prehistoric tectonic forces, a glorified mass of dirt kicked up by subterranean friction. It cannot grow. It has no true strength, no movement, only a stubborn massiveness. In the fullness of time, it can only be eventually worn away to a flat nothing, or, more likely, overwhelmed the infinite power of the sea.