For the restless, not the peaceful sleeping

obsessive lover, devoted friend, misguided revolutionary, the apostle whose gospels were written in blood, the most famous traitor in history—-an anachronistic playlist for Judas of Iscariot 

 L I S T E N 

art-of-swords:

Chinese ‘Imperial guard’ Ceremonial Sword

  • Dated: 19th century
  • Medium: steel, ivory, ray skin, iron
  • Measurements: overall lenght 97.4 cm

The sword has an ivory hilt carved with quatrefoil cartouches encircled by prunus and bamboo sprays flanked by ribboned double-gourd and scrolls, framed by geometric and petal panel borders. These are placed between the white metal shaped finial decorated with leaves issuing from branches framing the finial and the sword guard chased with floral sprays.

The long bevelled blade is incised with a dragon pursuing the flaming pearl, the reverse with an inscription, partly reading chi (‘by Imperial order’) and shou (‘longevity’), the ray skin scabbard with white metal mounts are decorated with dragons.

Source: Copyright 2014 © Bonhams

boydcrowderr:

1x7: Blind Spot

"Just what part of being under investigation confuses you, Raylan?"

MAKE ME CHOOSE: paddyfitz asked house martell or house lannister

Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!

Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!

Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments!

Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!

Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose factories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smoke-stacks and antennae crown the cities!

Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!

Allen Ginsberg, Howl (via illuminought)
healthyprettythings:


The Loneliest Whale in the World.
In 2004, The New York Times wrote an article about the loneliest whale in the world. Scientists have been tracking her since 1992 and they discovered the problem:
She isn’t like any other baleen whale. Unlike all other whales, she doesn’t have friends. She doesn’t have a family. She doesn’t belong to any tribe, pack or gang. She doesn’t have a lover. She never had one. Her songs come in groups of two to six calls, lasting for five to six seconds each. But her voice is unlike any other baleen whale. It is unique—while the rest of her kind communicate between 12 and 25hz, she sings at 52hz. You see, that’s precisely the problem. No other whales can hear her. Every one of her desperate calls to communicate remains unanswered. Each cry ignored. And, with every lonely song, she becomes sadder and more frustrated, her notes going deeper in despair as the years go by.
Just imagine that massive mammal, floating alone and singing—too big to connect with any of the beings it passes, feeling paradoxically small in the vast stretches of empty, open ocean.

“A cryptozoologist has suggested that the 52-Hertz whale could even be lonelier than we realize, a hybrid between two different species of whale, or the last survivor of an unidentified species, plying the oceans in a doomed search for another of its kind, singing its broken song.”

healthyprettythings:


The Loneliest Whale in the World.

In 2004, The New York Times wrote an article about the loneliest whale in the world. Scientists have been tracking her since 1992 and they discovered the problem:

She isn’t like any other baleen whale. Unlike all other whales, she doesn’t have friends. She doesn’t have a family. She doesn’t belong to any tribe, pack or gang. She doesn’t have a lover. She never had one. Her songs come in groups of two to six calls, lasting for five to six seconds each. But her voice is unlike any other baleen whale. It is unique—while the rest of her kind communicate between 12 and 25hz, she sings at 52hz. You see, that’s precisely the problem. No other whales can hear her. Every one of her desperate calls to communicate remains unanswered. Each cry ignored. And, with every lonely song, she becomes sadder and more frustrated, her notes going deeper in despair as the years go by.

Just imagine that massive mammal, floating alone and singing—too big to connect with any of the beings it passes, feeling paradoxically small in the vast stretches of empty, open ocean.

A cryptozoologist has suggested that the 52-Hertz whale could even be lonelier than we realize, a hybrid between two different species of whale, or the last survivor of an unidentified species, plying the oceans in a doomed search for another of its kind, singing its broken song.”

I guess when you’re young, you just believe there’ll be many people with whom you’ll connect with. Later in life, you realize it only happens a few times.

 ”Your Grace, if you are dead —” 

"— you will avenge my death, and seat my daughter on the Iron Throne. Or die in the attempt."

Well, it’s high time that tune reached a shuddering crescendo.

"Did you tire of your paramour on the road?"
“Never. We share too much.”