ashley street

historical-nonfiction:

This is Al Capone’s soup kitchen.  He opened it in Chicago in the 1930s, just around the time he went on trial for tax evasion. Good publicity isn’t so new. But he got convicted in the end, and went to infamous Alcatraz Island. 

historical-nonfiction:

This is Al Capone’s soup kitchen.  He opened it in Chicago in the 1930s, just around the time he went on trial for tax evasion. Good publicity isn’t so new. But he got convicted in the end, and went to infamous Alcatraz Island. 

Sunday Girl

—Where Is My Mind? (The Pixies cover)

Sunday GirlWhere Is My Mind? (The Pixies cover)

ruineshumaines:

Earth, a floating installation by Peter Calles.

This installation was constructed of a huge round lamp (2,5 m in diameter) filled with helium, hovering about 40 m. above and old square, Gl.Torv, in the old centre of Copenhagen. To make it look like the EARTH I had made a cover on which I painted the motive of the earth as it would look seen from out of space. The EARTH was only visible when it was dark. During the day I took down the EARTH and attached behind a roof invisible for people on the ground.

(via discoverynews)

"I’m looking at the river, and thinking of the sea…"

latimes:

Giant black hole is seen gobbling up a star: A star in another galaxy was ripped apart by the black hole’s intense gravity. “It turned into this really thin piece of spaghetti,” an astronomer says.
Image: Computer-simulated image shows gas from a shredded star falling into a black hole. Credit: Suvi Gezari / Johns Hopkins University

latimes:

Giant black hole is seen gobbling up a star: A star in another galaxy was ripped apart by the black hole’s intense gravity. “It turned into this really thin piece of spaghetti,” an astronomer says.

Image: Computer-simulated image shows gas from a shredded star falling into a black hole. Credit: Suvi Gezari / Johns Hopkins University

Neon Indian

—Deadbeat Summer

Neon Indian - “Deadbeat Summer”

(soundboard)

(Source: soundboard)

Lorca

I want to sleep the sleep of the apples,
I want to get far away from the busyness of the cemeteries.
I want to sleep the sleep of that child
who longed to cut his heart open far out at sea.

I don’t want them to tell me again how the corpse keeps all its blood,
how the decaying mouth goes on begging for water.
I’d rather not hear about the torture sessions the grass arranges for
nor about how the moon does all its work before dawn
with its snakelike nose.

I want to sleep for half a second,
a second, a minute, a century,
but I want everyone to know that I am still alive,
that I have a golden manger inside my lips,
that I am the little friend of the west wind,
that I am the elephantine shadow of my own tears.

When it’s dawn just throw some sort of cloth over me
because I know dawn will toss fistfuls of ants at me,
and pour a little hard water over my shoes
so that the scorpion claws of the dawn will slip off.

Because I want to sleep the sleep of the apples,
and learn a mournful song that will clean all earth away from me,
because I want to live with that shadowy child
who longed to cut his heart open far out at sea.