Archaic humans like Homo erectus “spread like many other mammals in the Old World,” Pääbo told me. “They never came to Madagascar, never to Australia. Neither did Neanderthals. It’s only fully modern humans who start this thing of venturing out on the ocean where you don’t see land. Part of that is technology, of course; you have to have ships to do it. But there is also, I like to think or say, some madness there. You know? How many people must have sailed out and vanished on the Pacific before you found Easter Island? I mean, it’s ridiculous. And why do you do that? Is it for the glory? For immortality? For curiosity? And now we go to Mars. We never stop.”
Today I discovered something horryfying.
It should be dead, but it grew in twisted, unnatural way from it’s horrible wound, despite chilling cold. It is still partially alive, if mishapen, monstrosity, covered in sickly-brown patches. Jesus.
That damn half of onion was in fridge way, way too long.
This is pure beauty.
Sometimes calling completely normal(?) thing in different words can give you new perspective. In future certain thing will be considered by many currently non-existing cultures as repulsive and horrifyingly disgusting.
You are necrophage.
There are things that exists in very strange way.
They are gray miracles – something utterly crazy and insane, overhelming with implications and consequences… but no one bats an eye. No whimper comes from mouth, no tear from eye. They are treated as something obvious. Yet, they are statistically impossible.
You want example?
Look at mirror.
There are processes that have two names, despite it being same thing. One name called when it is good for humans, and another when it is bad for humans.
Let’s talk about tearing small, small things apart. Dissolving them and changing into something else, preformed by tiny, tiny organisms, living off these changes. There are leftovers after this. Waste.
When it is good, humans call it fermentation.
When it is bad, humans call it rotting.
Think about it next time in pub: you basically drink bacteria piss.
Supposedly, the more you know, the less you fear. But there is knowledge that incerases your fear – or at least it should, if you know what is good for you. No, you do not need Cthulhu Mythos to have this effect.
Chalk. Just your usual chalk, holded in fingers by your teacher.
He draws – leave traces on blackboard – with delicate, crushed mix of white bones. Deaths of countless small marine organisms serve to teach children about boring, irrevelant crap.