kogiopsis:

dad-rock-davos:

itsfullofstars:

Coldest Star Found—No Hotter Than Fresh Coffee

According to a new study, a star discovered 75 light-years away is no warmer than a freshly brewed cup of coffee.

Dubbed CFBDSIR 1458 10b, the star is what’s called a brown dwarf. These oddball objects are often called failed stars, because they have starlike heat and chemical properties but don’t have enough mass for the crush of gravity to ignite nuclear fusion at their cores.

With surface temperatures hovering around 206 degrees F (97 degrees C), the newfound star is the coldest brown dwarf seen to date.

Keep reading.

I’m gonna…I’m gonna touch it..

The discovery is stretching our understanding of where to draw the line between what is a planet and what is a star, Lui added. ”

WHOA

(via acciotardis)







What’s out there?

(Source: mjwatson, via mazerun)




We had this Christmas tree, and we kept it even beyond Christmas, me and Tyler loved it so much and one time we were having people come over and Hoechlin picks up the Christmas tree and he starts bringing it into his room and me and Posey were like ‘What are you doing?’ and he was like ‘we’re having people over, I’m moving the tree into the room so it doesn’t get damaged’ and I was like ‘it’s not gonna get damaged what are you talking about bro, we’re not going to like touch the tree’ and he was like ‘alright, you just got to promise that we don’t break the tree.’ Cut to-

(Source: maybehonestly, via infinityandcyanide)








Dylan O’Brien for Teen Vogue*
Dylan O’Brien for Teen Vogue*

(Source: peterhale, via heathyr)




(Source: teen-wolf, via kirayukimura)




nympheline:

This is my favourite bookstore and bookseller in the world. Bar none.

I used to get to Seattle every six months or so, and whenever I visited I always made it a priority to stop in BLMF and ask its keeper what he’d been reading lately. He possessed an inexhaustible memory, a comfortable lack of snobbery, and impeccable taste. The first book he recommended to me, upon listening gravely to my litany of at-the-moment authors (Barbara Kingsolver, James Clavell, Maeve Binchy, Neil Gaiman, Charles DeLint, Anthony Bourdain) was Tipping the Velvet. He also later landed me with Geek Love, Anno Dracula, half the Aubreyad, and more modern Literature-with-a-capital-L than I could carry home.

The next-to-last time I dropped in, I asked if he had any P. G. Wodehouse.

"I have zero Wodehouse," he said, "and here’s why…"

Turned out that some fiend had taken to creeping in every month or so expressly to inquire of any Wodehouse and, once led to the volumes, to buy it all. ALL. Didn’t matter the condition, the edition, or whether he had another just like it in his possession; the villain bought every single P. G. Wodehouse in stock, every single time.

Was he a fan more comprehensive, more truly fanatical than any other I’d heard of, let alone known? Was he virulently anti-Wodehouse, only purchasing the books to keep their wry poison from infecting the impressionable masses? The world may never know.

I didn’t get any Wodehouse then, and I didn’t really feel the lack. I found plenty of other treasures that trip. But here’s one reason why BLMF and its proprietor are my favourite of their kind: that was two years ago, you see. Maybe three. In all that interim, I never planted foot in that bookshop. Never called. Never wrote. And I’m one face out of hundreds of thousands, dear reader; one reader he saw twice a year for three years, then not again for another three.

But I walked in the shop last Friday. Nodded hello.

"Can I help you find anything?" he asked, lifting his head from the phone.

"No, I’m good," I said.

"Wait—hold on a second." He set the phone down, walked ‘round the towers of books balanced precariously on the desk, on the floor, and atop other, only slightly less precarious towers. He jerked his head conspiratorially toward the far end of the shop, led me carefully to a shelf way in the back, removed a tattered stack of mass market paperbacks and motioned me closer to see what they’d been hiding.

Fifteen pristine Wodehouses: crisp, heavy, and—

Hardcover,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows.

Reader, I bought them all.

(via meera-reed)




lupinatic:

I just really love how hard these two shipped their characters and how much they obviously enjoy it.

(Source: imsirius, via brighterthanmars)




I’m going to fill this bucket with ice and prepare for the worst…

(Source: damnyouhiddles, via becausehiddles)




We all got the same problems – guilt, regret.

(Source: romanoffbarnes, via disappointme)




That’s what life is: repetitive routines. It’s a matter of finding the balance between deviating from those patterns and knowing when to repeat them.

(Source: 4clovesofsummer, via gordonlevitty)




(Source: effingstiles)







tacoposey:

still bummed that the benefactor wasn’t dan humphrey

(via effingstiles)




theme by silencePRESS