The first two images show off the giant Herschel crater, a distinguishing feature of this moon. The second gives a better view of the mountain peak within the crater. The shadows cast by the crater and mountain peak give a glimpse into just how massive this crater truly is. The last image is one of the clearest images of Mimas to date.
ps. this was so unnecessarily hard to make because there are almost no high definition pictures of Matteusz, and the colour correcting to add him in was almost impossible, hence why i had to change the overall colour scheme from green to red
My home is nowhere.
My home is a place
I have only seen on the periphery;
it lives in the shadow
of the blind spots in my eyes - always
keeps me on my toes
My home tastes like light rain
on dark skin - a tongue
poking out between
lips trying to swallow a piece
of the heavens whole -
and loganberry pie made
by someone else’s grandmother,
and not mine.
My home is the sound
of talk show radio at 9am
and music; simultaneously,
it is the silence of living alone,
the sporadic echoings of a piano,
or a clarinet breaking its voice
just so it can be heard. I apologise
for my inadequacies.
I cry over spilt milk and dirty dishes
that I don’t have the energy to clean,
wrap myself up in my blanket and engage
in the art of escapism:
blinding technicolor, high definition -
a picture of imagination made real;
a reminder that that is a shadow,
and I am living in the light.
I forget often.
It is too easy to forget
when you spend the first waking moments
of every morning remembering what your name is.
Who you are. Who you love.
Who you’ve loved. Reciting an origin story
that sounds too much fiction to be fact;
it is. This life is a fantastical
autobiography. My home is found
in book bindings
and leather and ink - of course
I would name my home something
that mirrors me in so many ways: tattooed
in permanence and with a spine
that cracks and bends,
but never breaks.
My home is nowhere:
my home is everywhere.
They’re so freaking talented they deserve an award. Either they post really epic fanart of the boys or funny ass animations. Their depictions of the boys are so adorable! I can stay on their blog for hours
The Trash Bin
Aka the trash account. They have everything and anything about the boys on their blog. 90% of them are reblogs. And most of the times their blog names makes no sense at all.
The Sailing Ship
Their blog is solely dedicated to the ship that they hardcore believe in. Fangirls at every little moment of their ship during Run!BTS, Gayo Track or interviews. It can be the two boys’ hair slightly touching and they’ll swear the rs is real.
These blogs are the grandmothers of the fandom. Their aesthetics include warm freshly baked cookies, fluffy knitted sweaters, soft hugs and a shoulder to cry on. You load off all your problems on them and they happily reply you with advice
They’re not blogs. They’re just those ads that promote random things on your feed, spoiling your mood when you’re on a BTS high. High key always mistaking them for a blog post.
They post every single thing that just happened with the boys. Including high definition pictures of them during tour. Their captions are so detailed: 120417 J Hope @ Wings Tour Jakarta 2nd day 10:04 pm on the left side of the stage, 10cm away from the edge, with a scuff on his shoe
Their blogs are said to be run by a certain member of BTS. So questions asked will be replied in the manner that the member will reply. They’re like those Catfish type of people on the internet. Is it really V? Or is that a 12 yr old girl? We will never know
These are all for comedic purposes; not intended to offend anyone :)
if you don't mind me asking, I don't know if this has been asked before- but how do you get such high definition pictures/clips?
I try to only work with HD movies (preferably Blu-Ray quality) in order to get the best results in my videos. For still images I either take my own screenshots of the movie files I have on my computer or Google search for screencap sites.
The old grandfather clock sitting in the window of your local antique store. It's covered in a thick layer of dust, its gears are swathed in a forest of cobwebs, yet it still keeps ticking. The store owner has attempted to take it apart several times, but every time he opens the back, his eyes glaze over, and he is filled with an indescribable dread. Its bell tolls exactly 2 minutes after sunset.
The thick fog that blankets the graveyard on Wednesday evening. Regardless of the weather, it rolls in, steaming out from the gnarled roots of the weeping willow, filling the air with a syrupy moisture. Upon dissipation, all the offerings resting before the tombstones are gone. It descends quickly; your neighbor Alice got caught in it once, and didn't reemerge until next week. She said it smelled vaguely of olive oil, with just a splash of basil.
Do not look behind you. It's following you, hiding in your shadow, lurking in the corner of your eye, slipping in through that door you always leave cracked open. It looms over you while you sleep, breathing in time with your snores, stretching its maw when you yawn. That flicker of light you see when you look in the mirror? That's it. That odd, dark lump in the frame of your selfies? That's it. No amount of filters will convince it to leave.
The bits of sea glass that you stumble upon during your evening strolls. They started off typical; shades of aquamarine, indigo, and baby blue. Lately, they have been washing up on shore at an alarming rate, ranging from blood red, to obsidian black. You didn't even know glass could be so opaque. Your friend collects them, hoarding them in a mason jar, creating a wonderful collage of what nature has to offer. The jar should have been full months ago, but it never seems to run out of empty space.
The old record that has been hanging in your living room for as long as you can remember. The label is cream colored, and inscribed with lines of twisted symbols that give you migraines when you attempt to translate them. When you were in high school, you borrowed your music teacher's record player. As soon as the needle scraped against the vinyl, the world fell silent. You opened your mouth to scream, but your strained vocal chords could not produce a single sound. Your sister found you curled up on the carpet, lying next to an empty record player.
The most reliable printer in the office. It can handle mass printing jobs without jamming, and never seems to run out of ink. Last week Jerry attempted to examine the cartridge. The black stains in between his fingers haven't washed out yet. There has been gossip that the printer might be replaced soon. Despite it's track-record, it has begun printing things without input. This morning the office floor was covered in high definition pictures of watermelons. During your lunch break, it produced a single, landscape image of a slaughterhouse. Your roast beef sandwich suddenly seemed much less appetizing.
The stray cat that roams the neighborhood at dusk. Its fur seems to vacillate between shades of brilliant orange and dull greys; it's probably just the lighting. You left a can of tuna on you porch for the stray. An hour later, the tuna had disappeared, and seemed to be replaced with an iridescent sort of jelly. You looked up to see a pair of green eyes staring at you from the bushes. You don't even like tuna anyway, where did that can come from? Where do all these cans keep coming from? Your fridge is full of tuna cans, leaking that substance all over the linoleum tiles. The fatter the cat grows, the more gaunt your own body becomes.
The little gray circle that appears on your phone screen when it is loading. It spins slowly, dragged down by the spotty wifi of the town. It is mesmerizing. You opened the internet to look up a brownie recipe, only to be met with the circle. Hours later, your pupils were still rolling around in your eyes, while your mother angrily sent you out to buy store bought sweets instead. If you stare at it long enough, the circle grows wider and wider, pushing past the bounds of your screen, slicing through your silicone case, and rotating around your wrists, like whirling handcuffs.
The bouquet of roses your sister gave her fiance months ago. She put in a fake rose, saying that their love would die once the last rose did. Yet, they are all alive. You visit their apartment from time to time, and see the flowers sitting on the dining room table. You do not like eating dinner there. Your sister and her fiance prepare the food, ignoring the way the roses writhe and squirm in the vase, their thorns scratching deep lines into the table. When the meal begins, the petals start to quiver, sweating red droplets, making the entire room tremble. Your sister ends the meal by scraping the remains of her food into the vase.
The teddy bear you slept with back in the day. It's probably up in the attic somewhere, buried among piles of clothes that no longer fit and photos of people you no longer love. Its button eyes are not symmetrical; one is tiny and black, while the other is yellow and square-shaped; it vaguely resembles the button that popped off your jacket during graduation. The stuffing has gradually been leaking out the tiny rip over its stomach; now that you think about it, it's very similar to your own surgery scar. You've been having abdominal pains recently; maybe you should see your doctor.
The silver amulet on display in the jeweler's store. It is the center piece, resting safely behind a layer of freshly polished glass. When rays of sunlight pierce through the blinds, they are drawn to the magenta stone resting among the woven strands of metal. Many visitors have attempted to buy the amulet, but the jeweler refuses, not letting it out of its glass prison. And yet, everyday the store's window displays a sale, advertising the amulet at amazing prices. The jeweler insists that it is not for sale, shaking her head as her hands quiver wildly, gripping the case's keys until her knuckles turn white, her eyes filled with a primal sort of desperation.
The aquarium. The billboards advertise dolphins, sharks, and seal shows. But every single tank contains the same animal. The aquarium is a room, with a ceiling that reaches 100 feet into the air, and walls made of endless rows of tanks. The water is a neon blue color; the single worker there explains that it's the result of microscopic plankton. His eyes are the same blue. Despite the endless signs warning against it, children tap at the glass, making the many-tentacled cephalopods open their beaks, and emit a bone-chilling cry. You're not sure how many there are; a closer look reveals that the tanks are all connected, with mile long tentacles wrapping around the entire aquarium.
YOU run a hand through your hair, biting your nails nervously.
You sit on the edge of your bed, wiping the salty droplets that had fallen onto your cheeks.
You emit a loud, thick cough, your voice scratchy. The room is dim, a small lamp casting a yellow glow from beside your bed.
Thoughts race through your head; thoughts that make you sick, make you want to throw up. The thought of him touching her in places he would touch you, the thought of her name rolling off of his tongue instead of yours, the thought of these very sheets you lay on tainted with the love they had made… Not you with him, her.
It’s been 12 months…
12 months of apparent lies and cover ups.
He told you he loved you, but was this all just a lie? A lie to get in your pants, act like he loved you and felt something deep for you, but then find someone else and leave you clueless and heartbroken?
The high quality picture burns holes in you, and you have to force yourself to look away from it. You sniffle, using your hand to whack the magazine off of the bed. You fall onto your back, your sweatshirt sleeve soaked with tears.
“I hate Hollywood and all these rumors.” You whisper, biting your bottom lip.
Suddenly the door to your apartment swings open, a voice greeting you. “Y/N, I’m home, baby!”
You squeeze your eyes shut, curling up into a ball. A small, weak, vulnerable ball of sadness and suspicion.
Why can’t I disappear?
The door to your bedroom swings open. “Y/N?” His voice asks softly.
Shawn approaches you carefully. He places an hand on your upper arm. As soon as his skin comes in contact with yours, you swat it away.
“How could you?!” You yell, sitting up and glaring at him.
“What are you talking about, Y/N?” He asks, backing slightly away from you. How could he act so innocent and clueless?
You slide off of the bed, retrieving the magazine from the floor before throwing it at Shawn harshly.
Shawn studies the cover as you weep quietly. The high definition picture of Shawn and Camila Cabello locking lips makes you want to throw up.
“Do you actually believe this?” Shawn asks you.
“What do you think?!” You yell, crossing your arms over your chest. “How could you?!”
Shawn’s eyebrows furrow. “I can’t believe you think I’m that unfaithful to you! All I’ve been is gentle and caring for you, Y/N! Do you think I’d ever fucking do something that cruel to you?!”
Your lip quivers as you whisper, “Maybe I do.“ Shawn’s face twists in anger. “This photo looks pretty fucking real to me. Maybe that’s where you go when you come home late; maybe you’re with Camila.”
“I’m not!” Shawn defends.
“And what if you are?” You whisper. “You know, I wouldn’t appreciate being treated like a used piece of shit.”
“You’re so goddamn stubborn! I can’t believe you’re mad at me for something I never even did!” You stay silent. “You know what, maybe I am with Camila, what if I was, huh?”
“I can’t believe you’d lie to me about saying you love me!” Tears blur your vision, small droplets of water staining your shirt.
Shawn’s face softens at your words, and just for a second, you think the situation will get better from there. But then his face hardens again, making your heart clench.
“Don’t you dare say that I don’t love you, Y/N because I fucking do! With all my goddamn heart!” Shawn runs a hand through his hair frustratedly. “I just can’t believe we’re having this fucking argument right now.”
“You know I hear what you say about Camila during your damn interviews—”
“Yeah! I say that she’s a close friend of mine and that she’s very talented!”
“‘Close friend of mine’.” You mock, making the anger in his chest expand. “You seem a little more than friends to me, Shawn!”
“You know, at least Camila actually trusts me as a friend. There’s about zero fucking trust in this relationship, Y/N! Have you ever heard of photoshop?! That’s a thing! It. Was. Photoshopped.” He seethes. “She actually cares about me and doesn’t accuse me of false accusations. If you can’t face the fact that there’s going to be false rumors and lies all over the media about us, you need to get it through your thick skull, Y/N.”
Small sobs escape your lips. You had never been in this big of a fight with Shawn, usually your fights were about what to have for dinner or fighting over the TV remote. Nothing serious like this. You loved Shawn with all of your heart and being, but you hated seeing all of these rumors spreading around like wildfires, because you couldn’t tell if they were true or not. You didn’t want to lose the light of your life. You knew he was a good boyfriend, but you couldn’t help but wonder if those rumors were in fact true or not. The salty tears running down your cheeks had never been this bad when it came to Shawn, you were full on bawling that he was upset with you and that he might be cheating on you. Of course, you cried when he went off on tour and you had to stay in Pickering to continue schooling and such, but this was way worse.
Shawn knew you were upset, but he couldn’t stand to be accused of every rumor in Hollywood about him by his girlfriend. By now, he was just letting out all of his frustrations and anger. He could’ve dealt with it in a better way, but the thought never came to mind. He knew you were very sensitive, so why didn’t he realize he was slowly breaking you? Simple. He was sick and tired of the media doing everything they can to corrupt your relationship.
“Y/N, you’re so stubborn and hard to deal with sometimes, and it pisses me off! We’ve been together for over a year, Y/N! You can act so bitchy sometimes, and I just now realize that! Y'know, Camila would actually believe me if I told her I loved her. I can’t deal with this right now.”
Your heart slams to the bottom of your stomach. He was comparing you to another woman. Someone better. Maybe he loved her and not you.
“Then do you want me to leave?” Your voice cracks as fresh tears roll down your face. Shawn stays silent.
“Maybe I will.” You whisper, walking past him.
You quickly walk towards the door to your house with tears remaining in your eyes.
Shawn stands in your shared room, staring at the floor. Tears run down his face as well, one of the few times he’s cried. He was always your rock, there for you, but not this time.
As the sound of the door to your house opens, he wanted to scream your name. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to hug and kiss you. He wanted to assure you it would all be okay. He really really wanted to, but in that moment, your name was stuck in his throat, its verbal route clogged with no other escape. As much as he wanted to reach out and stop you from leaving, his body wouldn’t let him. You deserved someone better than him. Just then he had treated you like a piece of shit, and he wanted you to find someone better. Nothing could ever replace his love for you, though.
“Idiot, idiot, idiot!” He screams at himself, ripping up the magazine into small pieces. He lets out a loud scream before approaching the wall and delivering a few flat palmed blows to it. Another wail escapes his throats before he collapses against the wall, crying into his hands. He knew he fucked up, and reality was hitting him like a train.
“I’m sorry.” Shawn whispers.
On the other hand, you sob into the steering wheel of your car, your head resting on the cool black material. Cries and a string of curses roll off of our tongue at the thought of not having Shawn in your life anymore.
Sometimes things don’t work out how you want them to, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t meant to be.
wow okay this was shitty
i’m so sorry to the anon who requested this i just couldn’t find the write way to word this, but i hope you enjoyed anyways!
i’m hoping my inspiration comes back soon because i’m really missing it
this was also very short hmph, my writing will get way better i promise :)
also, i love camila ok?
i just used the “shawmila” controversy (if you even wanna call it that) for their fight because…