how exactly are space and time entangled? How could time be defined? Many times I heard people who actually work with physics say that time is just an illusion (didn't feel like they were joking [???]), and then I hear about theories that say the more you'd approach to the speed of light, the slower time would pass. Things such as time doesn't pass to a proton. All I can think of it is Einstein's scene in Rick&Morty screaming I WILL MESS WITH TIME!!!!! I WILL MESS WITH TIME
This is really hard to imagine, but space and time are the same thing (as far as I understand); “space” has 3 dimensions - length, width, height - and time is essentially the 4th dimension. Time is an illusion in the sense that it’s not constant for everyone; time flows at different rates depending on the speed of the observer and whether or not they’re in a gravitational field.
What you’re referring to with speed affecting speed of time is the theory of relativity; you move faster through space and slower through time. And yes, you’re right that photons don’t experience time, since they’re traveling at the speed of light, which is the fastest obtainable speed. Relativity is really crazy and hard to wrap your mind around, so don’t panic if you’re having trouble understanding it. Feel free to hit me up if you’ve got any questions!!
All I really want from life is a small, comfy space of my own where I can walk around in my underwear or have tea at 3am or have a dog and lots of bookshelves, paired with a job that’s not expected to become my entire life, pay enough for the small apartment and medicine and occasional media while still leaving time off and defined boundries, where I don’t have to walk constantly on egg shells or pour out my entire self into my work while still not being allowed to be parts of myself.
I’m more and more and convinced that kind of thing is a myth though.
This snippet dedicated sorely to princessparadoxical. Part of a particular CIA/Ridgely AU, you know what I’m talking about.
There is no much space at Ridgely anymore, not since all CIA operatives
and Black Wing subjects moved here (temporarily, but Todd honestly starts
to think that he’s just lying to himself). Even the old attic is
occupied by petting zoo (Lost cats mostly. Also aliens who’s crashed at
some weeks ago. But neighbors do not need to know that they are actual
aliens, ok? They help acquiring money. Kids of Springsboro are happy. So
why bother). But when Dirk decides they need their own artificial
garden with flowers and vegetables the idea strickes him.
Spring Death Maze right under the building.
He takes this gardening
business very seriously (well, he actually asks a couple of agents to do
almost everything, they work for bakings and other goodies). And all
works out almost perfectly. Until, of course, everything goes down to
hell at some point.
"Making tumblr posts doesn't do shit. Go outside and actually do something if you care!"
Translation: “ Remove yourself from a space that gives you access to hundreds of thousands of people in ways that are still accessible to those who work or are disabled. I find it easier to ignore people like you offline. How about you make yourself more easily dismissible?"
ok ok ok so i know that you like nsp lore. so do i. therefore i submit to you that I Just Want To (Dance) is actually chronologically the last nsp song; taking place after ninja brian has died and danny took on brian's ninja mantle, but is now giving it up. i can explain further, but the ask doesn't have enough space
please reblog this and add more……. i must know how this theory works
The sound of the clock ticking keeps me awake most nights.
doesn’t help that I put a scarf over it. It doesn’t help that I took the
batteries out months ago. It just keeps ticking. Second after second.
never used to mind the ticking. I never really noticed it. When he lived here,
when he shared my bed, the soft sound of him breathing drowned out the other
noises in the house. I wouldn’t get startled every time the house settled or a
neighbor set their car alarm.
could sleep back then.
it’s been fifteen months and I don’t think I’ve slept a wink. My eyes close and
when they open again, feeling as though morning must be right around the
corner, only a single minute has passed. Sometimes two minutes, on a good
thought about getting a night job. I applied all over town, but no one is
hiring. I get rejection emails more frequently than I hear from my kids. I have
had one call-back, but once they met me in person, they decided I ‘wasn’t what
they were looking for.’ I wasn’t a spring chicken anymore, sure, but I could
still clean houses or offices. I could still make someone’s space look
isn’t about money - I still get his disability benefits. Survivor Benefits, the
Social Security Office calls them. As if I lucked out and won something, by
outliving the man I wanted to grow old with.
instead of working, I lay in our bed and hug his pillow tightly. I haven’t
washed it since that last night he laid down on it. I cannot stand the idea of
losing his scent. After fifteen months, the pillow doesn't actually smell
like him anymore, but I still pretend.
I can dream for a few minutes - a half-awake, half-asleep mirage of images and
sounds and lights.
lie in bed, curled around his pillow, and I fall into one of these dreams.
can hear him in the bathroom, shaving. He is humming something - a song from
his Swing Jazz album. It’s a riotous tune, full of upswings and drop offs. I
smile as I press my face into his pillow and catch the scent of him. Of his
aftershave and medicated shampoo.
Dolly,” he calls from the bathroom, just as he did every morning.
“You got a kiss waiting for me?” His voice is youthful and full of
don’t I?” I say back, just as I used to. I keep my eyes closed and let the
waking dream wash over me. I allow myself to feel the steam floating into the
room from the bathroom, muggy and stiffing from his hot shower. He always did
take scalding showers - I never understood how he could handle the temperate.
I hum. I feel my eyelashes scratching across the pillowcase.
ya ever miss it?” I didn’t hear him enter the room, but he’s suddenly
there, sitting beside me, the weight of his hand on my hip.
raise my head slightly off his red-tinged pillow, so old it’s now turned into a
brownish, ruddy stain. “Miss what?” I ask softly. I don’t dare open
my eyes in case it ends the dream.
he replies. His voice is the epitome of remorse.
day,” I whisper, nearly choking on the sob that tries to rip itself from
my mouth. “Every second.”
won’t you join me?”
has never asked this before. Why won’t I join him? I suppose because I was born
and raised Catholic, and taking your own life was never promoted. I suppose
because the children might still need me. They were only just out of the house
- one was twenty-three and the youngest twenty-one. What if they lose their
jobs or their apartments? Where would they go?
you love me?”
the ocean loves the moon,” I say. He said that to me when we first laid
together, wrapped up in an old blanket under the stars, our love warm and thick
like the Louisiana summer sky.
chuckles and I feel his breath, so warm on my neck, his fingers at my scalp.
“I’ve missed running my hands through your hair. I’ve missed singing to
you.” He hums and his soulful voice makes my tears slip past my closed
you’d have to do, love, is bring the razor along your throat,” he murmurs,
and I feel his finger trace over my throat. “That beautiful ebony throat.
Damn, Dolly, I’ve missed kissing it.”
open my mouth to agree. I open my mouth to beg him to take me with him. Up to
Heaven. To whatever was after this… this dreary wasted grey life without him.
fingers curl around his pillowcase and I feel it, grimy and unwashed, against
my palm. The pillowcase, still stained in blood after all this time. Stained
from when he drew a straight razor across his own throat fifteen months ago.
gasp a little, and I smell something else. Something not like Albert.
the mariachi band at that Mexican restaurant?” I whisper. “Our first
moans softly and chuckles - the laugh is too rich, too deep. “Yes, mon
amour. Take the razor.” He’s pressing something hard against my hand.
the last football game of the season?” I ask. I can’t open my eyes. I just
can’t. “How the stands were empty except for you and I. Our team having
lost every other game, no one bothered to show?”
mon amour. Take the razor.” More insistent this time.
smell of sulfur is growing stronger. “Remember when Abby was born?” I
continue. My cheeks are so wet I don’t know how I’m not drowning in my tears.
mon amor. Take the razor!”
take a deep breath and wrap my hand around the razor. “That’s odd. Because
we never had a daughter.” I open my eyes and lash out with the razor and
it sinks deep into his neck - the same way he had done to himself all those
months, days, seconds ago.
thick tar-smoke bellows out of the cut I’d made and he only laughs. “I
suppose I’ll have to try harder next time, won’t I, Dolly?”
demon fades in a rush of sulfur and the clock ticks back, louder than before,
second after second.
Is this the Starz community manager’s attempt at being like “Hey guys! I know how to internet!” Because really? It’d be better if you, ya know, promoted the shit out of the bluray release. Or teased special features. Or do anything that literally any semi-qualified community manager would be doing if they wanted to scrape by doing the bare minimum of their job…
And now, a brief look at the real, actual, in no way gifs from Office Space, work day of the Starz social media team.