In order of appearance

"Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none."

William Shakespeare, All's Well That Ends Well, act 1, scene 1

The carrot?

"If a rabbit defined intelligence the way man does, then the most intelligent animal would be a rabbit, followed by the animal most willing to obey the commands of a rabbit."

Robert Brault, writer (b. 1938)

Chuva de aranhas (Video Original)

Artificial arms boost limbless loggerhead turtle

Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it's a squid

AFP.com

Mal au coeur

Des millions de harengs retrouvés morts dans un... par lemondefr

Britain’s new space-age Antarctic base can slide across ice | The Japan Times

Britain’s new space-age Antarctic base can slide across ice | The Japan Times

Dead tired

I feel nothing. I feel nothing.

Hovering in mid-air without a sound.

I feel nothing.

No earthly grasp. No bearing.

No beacon to light nor to follow.

The hem of my coat unseamed.

Unravelling. Raving. Reeling.

I feel hollow. I feel hollow.

Like a coreless trunk, a bleached coral.

A kite is what I most resemble now.

A kite in squalls paused in a painting.

One inch from toppling down yet not toppling down.

On the brink to. On the brink to.

And I am dead tired of it.

I wish I fell. I wish I fell.

Yes, I wish that.

Up to my fingertips stretched out,

My legs stiff and still, my back, rigid.

The shadow under me should draw a cross.

It should.

I am dead tired of this too.

Wasteland. All this is a wasteland; I am a wasteland.

I am like a puppet whose strings used to be attached.

Those strings were cut.

Yet this body of mine floats for he remembers.

No, he can never forget the strings.

What they did to him.

Those strings were cut, yet I hover.

I have never felt more human than now.

Time has no end, no beginning. Time does not exist.

Time cannot exist. We live on impressions.

We live in depressions. We like not the summits,

Where the sun shines the brightest.

If I could write my life

I would be a hate letter away

From vanishing.

I am that bone-tired.

My skeleton made of eggshell glass

Brittler than a tamarind flake.

Were my body broken perhaps

I would feel something.

Humans are like that, so people say.

None is beyond oblivion. Nothing is.

None is shatterproof. Nothing is.

Expecting our notion of time to yield

Is expecting a chicken to lay an asteroid:

There is a billion to one chance.

Pain and distrust percolate

The churches, the mosques, the synagogues,

The banks, the schools, the governments.

I am between the anvil and the hammer,

And this is tiring, straining, enraging me to death

Whilst I hover, paused as on photographs of old,

Sepiaed by survival,

Worn thin by unrealised expectation,

In the still furore of existence,

Unshod, haggard, halfway to everything,

As incapable of action as of inaction.

I am hollow, hollow, hollow.

About (The) T/time(s)

 

"Trying to determine what is going on in the world by reading newspapers is like trying to tell the time by watching the second hand of a clock."

Ben Hecht, screenwriter, playwright, novelist, director, and producer (1894-1964)

 

Richard III: The mystery of the king and the car parking lot

CNN's article's here and BBC's is there.