#Lewis Machine Tool
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HRF CONCEPTS GOES LIVE WITH THE RCM FOR LMT MARS-L
HRF Concepts has announced the roll out of the RCM for the LMT MARS-L HRF Concepts state âThe LMT RCM (Rifle Combat Magwell) features a 250% larger funnel surface allowing for consistent and fast reloads under any condition. Compatible with all major magazines (including M3 PMAGs) on the market as well as higher capacity options like the Magpul D60 or Surefire MAG5-60. The LMT RCM fits ontoâŠ
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In terms of the currently accepted picture of the relation of man to technics, our age is passing from the primeval state of man, marked by his invention of tools and weapons for the purpose of achieving mastery over the forces of nature, to a radically different condition, in which he will have not only conquered nature, but detached himself as far as possible from the organic habitat. With this new âmegatechnicsâ the dominant minority will create a uniform, all-enveloping, super-planetary structure, designed for automatic operation. Instead of functioning actively as an autonomous personality, man will become a passive, purposeless, machine-conditioned animal whose proper functions, as technicians now interpret manâs role, will either be fed into the machine or strictly limited and controlled for the benefit of de-personalized, collective organizations.
Lewis Mumford, The Pentagon of Power (1970)
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Hello! Hope you're doing great:D
I really enjoy reading your fics because they're all so well written and they're an absolute treat to read especially as a Lh fanâșïž
Can i have something with biker! Lewis pls pls.. like the reader is super fascinated with motorcycles and wishes to ride one someday.. she sees lewis arriving to the paddock on his bike and instantly starts swooning (both over him and his bikeđ€) he takes her for a ride and then she asks him to teach her to ride and then they go on motorcycle dates together đ„°
Thanksss, have a good day/night âșïž

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đŸđčđ đŒđđđ đŽđđ
Authors Note: Hi lovelies! Thank you so much for reading! Iâm so glad youâre enjoying these,theyâre such a joy to write as a fellow LH fan. Also, praying for Lewis at Silverstone this weekend, letâs manifest good things! đđ»đ«¶đ» Lots of love xx
Summary: A lifelong bike lover finds freedom and love through rides with LH44.
Warnings: none
Taglist: @piston-cup @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes
MASTERLIST
àŁȘđČᄫᥠâ âč Ë ÖŽ Ö¶ đàŁȘđČᄫᥠâ âč Ë ÖŽ Ö¶ đàŁȘđČᄫᥠâ âč Ë àŁȘđČᄫᥠâ âč Ë ÖŽ Ö¶ đàŁȘđČᄫᥠâ
Youâve loved motorcycles for as long as you can remember. Long before you understood what horsepower meant, or why the smell of petrol could make your chest tighten with something like joy. It wasnât just fascination. It was something deeper, something elemental.
Like the sound of an engine revving was wired into your DNA, a primal rhythm that stirred something ancient and electric in your bones. Even before you could walk, youâd crawl toward the sound of a bike starting up like it was calling you home.
Some of your earliest memories are of sitting cross legged on the cold concrete floor of the garage, the chill seeping through your jeans and numbing your legs, but you never minded. That floor was your playground, your classroom, your sanctuary. Your tiny hands would wrap around a spanner that was always just a little too big, the cold steel biting into your palms.
Youâd grip it like it was a sword, a key to some secret world only your dad truly understood. The garage was your cathedral dimly lit, cluttered and sacred. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that filtered through the high windows, and the air was thick with the scent of oil, rust, and old leather. The walls were lined with pegboards bristling with tools, each one hanging in its rightful place like relics in a shrine.
Your dad would be crouched beside you, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hands blackened with grease and calloused from years of labor. His forearms were a roadmap of scars and smudges, each one a story some funny, some painful, all worn with pride. He moved with a kind of quiet confidence, like he was in communion with the machine.
He didnât just work on bikes he listened to them, coaxed them back to life with a mechanicâs precision and a poetâs heart. Heâd pass you tools without looking, trusting you to know which was which. You always tried to get it right, even if your hands trembled a little under the weight of his trust.
Heâd talk as he worked, his voice low and steady like the hum of an idling engine. There was something soothing in the rhythm of it, like a lullaby made of torque specs and timing chains. He spoke in a language of compression ratios, valve clearances, and gear ratios, and you absorbed it all like scripture.
âMachines have souls,â he used to say, tightening bolts with the kind of reverence most people reserved for prayer. âIf you listen close, theyâll talk to you.â
And you believed him. You still do.
You watched him rebuild engines like they were ancient puzzles only he could solve. He didnât just fix things he resurrected them. You learned to read the language of torque and timing, of friction and flow. You knew the difference between a two-stroke and a four-stroke before you could ride a bicycle without training wheels.
You learned to change spark plugs before you could spell them. Or knew the smell of burnt oil and the sound of a misfiring cylinder like other kids knew the lyrics to pop songs. Easily could identify a Ducati by the dry clutch rattle, a Harley by its loping idle, a Yamaha by the scream of its inline four.
By the time you were twelve, you could strip down a carburettor and reassemble it blindfolded. At the age of fifteen, you could rebuild an engine with your eyes half closed and your mind somewhere else entirely usually dreaming of the open road, or the wind in your face followed by the roar of the engine beneath you.
Youâd lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, imagining the feel of the throttle in your hand, the lean into a corner and the blur of the world rushing past.
But no matter how much you knew and no matter how many bikes you brought back from the brink with him he never let you ride. âToo dangerous, sweetheart,â heâd say, his voice soft but firm, like he was trying to wrap you in bubble wrap with nothing but words. âI couldnât live with it if something happened to you.â
And you understood. You really did. You saw the fear in his eyes, the way his jaw tightened when he heard sirens in the distance. You knew heâd lost friends maybe even parts of himself to the road. But that didnât make the ache go away.
So you grew up with this quiet longing lodged deep in your chest. You could build them, fix them, dream about them but you couldnât ride them. It was like being fluent in a language you were never allowed to speak. That yearning never dulled. It sat there, just beneath your ribs, humming like an idling engine, waiting for the throttle.
Maybe thatâs why cars never did it for you. Even Formula 1, with all its speed and spectacle, never stirred your blood the way two wheels did. The roar of a V8 engine was impressive, sure but the high pitched scream of a sport bike at full throttle? That was music. That was poetry. That was freedom. Cars were cages, no matter how fast they went. Bikes were wings.
Youâd go to races sometimes, standing at the edge of the track with your heart in your throat, watching the riders lean into corners like they were dancing with gravity.
You memorised their lines, their braking points, the way they shifted their weight like it was second nature. Constantly you studied them the way some kids studied astronauts or rock stars. You didnât want fame or trophies. After all this time, you just wanted to ride.
And then came SilverstoneâŠ
You hadnât planned on coming to Silverstone.
Formula 1 wasnât really your thing not in the way motorcycles were. Sure, you respected the engineering, the speed, the spectacle. But four wheels never stirred your soul the way two did. Cars were impressive. Bikes were intimate. Cars roared. Bikes sang.
Still, when your friend scored last minute paddock passes and practically begged you to tag along, you couldnât say no. It was Silverstone, after all hallowed ground for motorsport. You figured it would be a fun distraction. A chance to soak in the atmosphere, maybe snap a few photos, and spend the day surrounded by the kind of high octane energy that always made your skin buzz.
You didnât come looking for anything. Honestly, you didnât even come for the race.
You came for the noise - the symphony of engines echoing off grandstands, the hiss of air guns in the pit lane, the low murmur of mechanics speaking in a language only they understood.
The smell of hot rubber and race fuel, for the electricity in the air that made your heart beat just a little faster. But most of all tv e buzz that comes with standing in the paddock on race day, surrounded by machines that cost more than most houses and people who lived life at 300 kilometres an hour.
It was interesting, sure but it wasnât your world.
Until you heard it.
That growl. Deep. Throaty. Low. Not the high pitched scream of an F1 car, but something else entirely. Something raw. Something alive.
The unmistakable hum of something powerful on two wheels. You turned instinctively, your body reacting before your brain could catch up, scanning the paddock for the source of the sound. And then you saw him. Pulling in through the service gate on a red MV Agusta F4. Your heart stopped.
It was like seeing a ghost from your dreams sleek, crimson and impossibly beautiful. The red paint shimmered under the sun like liquid fire, every curve of the fairing catching the light just right. Youâd admired that bike for years, obsessed over it from afar, memorised its silhouette from old magazines and grainy YouTube clips.
You knew every inch of it the undertail exhausts that looked like jet turbines, the razor sharp tail section, the radial valves, the single-sided swingarm. It was a masterpiece. A machine that looked like it had been sculpted by gods and tuned by devils.
And the man riding it? Lewis Hamilton.
He swung off the bike with effortless grace, like heâd done it a thousand times. Black leather jacket unzipped just enough to reveal the unmistakable red of a Ferrari jersey underneath which was bold, iconic and clinging to his frame in a way that made your breath catch.
His helmet was tucked under one arm and his braids fell loose across his shoulders, catching the breeze like silk. He looked like he belonged on that bike. Like they were made for each other two icons of speed and precision, carved from the same myth.
You were stunned. Not just by the bike, but also by him. The way he moved, the way he carried himself like confidence wasnât something he wore, it was something he radiated. He looked like a painting come to life. Like a dream you werenât sure you were supposed to be having.
But all you could see was the MV Agusta.
You barely noticed you were staring until his gaze flicked toward you. He caught you, eyes wide completely entranced by the bike, not his fame. Not the seven world titles. Not the cameras that trailed him like shadows. Just the machine.
âYou like her?â His voice carried across the paddock, smooth and casual like he already knew the answer. You couldnât help it, you breathed, âLove her.â The grin that spread across his face was immediate, like he enjoyed that answer more than he shouldâve. âCome check her out.â
You didnât even think. Your feet moved before your mind could catch up, carrying you across the paddock until you were standing in front of the most perfect machine youâd ever seen. Up close, the bike was even more flawless the lines sharper, paint deeper and craftsmanship undeniable. It wasnât just a motorcycle. It was art.
âSheâs gorgeous,â you murmured, circling her slowly, reverently. âMV Agusta F4. Tamburiniâs design. Inline four-cylinder, radial valves, single-sided swingarm. Perfect geometry. Sheâs a legend.â
You felt his eyes on you as you spoke, but you couldnât tear your gaze away from the bike. You were tracing her curves with your eyes, memorising every detail like you might never see her again.
âYou know your bikes,â he said, sounding a little surprised. Maybe even impressed. âMy dad taught me,â you replied, your voice soft. âIâve built them, fixed them, tuned them. But Iâve never ridden one.â
That made him pause. âNever? Not once?â
You shook your head, a flush creeping up your neck. âHe wouldnât let me. Said it was too dangerous. Iâve waited my whole life to ride.â Lewis studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Like he was weighing something. Calculating risk. Or maybe just possibility. âYou local?â
âYeah,â you said, trying to keep your voice steady. His grin returned softer this time, but playful. âStick around after the race. Iâll take you for a ride.â Your heart skipped a beat. âYouâre serious?â
He nodded, eyes twinkling. âAs serious as I am about winning today.â And just like that, the world tilted.
Youâd come to Silverstone expecting nothing. Just tagging along. Just watching from the sidelines. But now? Now you were standing on the edge of something youâd waited your whole life for.
And it was finally, finally within reach.
You found your seat in the grandstand just before the formation lap, your friend tugging you along by the wrist, both of you breathless from weaving through the crowd. The stands were already packed an ocean of bodies draped in team colours, waving flags, wearing caps, faces painted with allegiance.
The air buzzed with anticipation, thick with the scent of fried food, sunscreen and the faint tang of ozone that always seemed to hang over racetracks like a promise.
Your friend grinning like a kid on Christmas morning handed you a pair of earplugs and a bottle of water. âYouâre gonna need these,â they said, eyes sparkling. âIt gets loud.â
You smiled, but your heart wasnât in it. You were still thinking about the MV Agusta. About the way the sunlight had kissed its fairings. About the way Lewis had looked at you not like a stranger, but like someone who understood. Someone who saw the same fire in you that youâd been trying to smother your whole life.
Still, you slid into your seat, the molded plastic warm from the sun. The crowd around you was a living, breathing organism tens of thousands of voices rising and falling in waves, flags fluttering like heartbeat rhythms in the wind. The grandstands trembled with energy, a low frequency hum that settled into your bones. You could feel it in your chest, in your fingertips, in the soles of your feet.
The sun had broken through the clouds, casting a golden sheen over the track. The tarmac shimmered with heat, mirage like, as if the circuit itself were alive and pulsing.
Marshals in orange suits moved like clockwork, checking barriers, clearing debris and giving last minute signals. The pit lane was a hive of activity with mechanics hunched over laptops, engineers barking into headsets, tire warmers being stripped away like ceremonial robes.
Then the engines fired up.
The sound hit you like a physical force sharp, high pitched, and impossibly loud. It wasnât the deep, guttural rumble of a motorcycle engine. It was something else entirely. A scream. A war cry. The kind of sound that made your bones vibrate and your chest tighten. It was mechanical fury, precision violence and a symphony of combustion and control.
Your friend nudged you, eyes wide. âYou feel that?â You nodded, unable to speak. You didnât just hear it, you felt it. In your ribs. In your teeth. In your soul.
The cars rolled out for the formation lap, sleek and low and impossibly fast even at half speed. You watched them snake through the corners, tires weaving to stay warm, engines snarling like caged animals. The anticipation was unbearable. Every second stretched like wire.
Then the grid formed. The lights blinked on - one, two, three, four, five. And then they went out. The race exploded into motion.
The cars launched off the line like missiles, engines screaming, tires spitting smoke. The crowd roared, a tidal wave of sound that crashed over the grandstands. You were on your feet without realising it, eyes locked on the blur of colour and speed as they barrelled into Turn 1.
You followed every lap with laser focus, but your mind kept drifting. Not to the leaderboard. Not to the pit strategies or tire compounds. But to the MV Agusta. To the promise hanging in the air like a spark waiting to catch. To the way Lewis had said, âStick around.â Like it was nothing. Like it was everything.
Still, you couldnât deny the thrill of the race. The way the cars danced through Maggotts and Becketts, the way they braked late into Stowe, the way the crowd roared every time someone made a daring move.
You found yourself swept up in it, heart pounding, adrenaline surging. Your friend was shouting beside you, pointing out overtakes, cheering for their favourite driver, but you barely registered the words. You were somewhere else. Somewhere between the roar of the engines and the memory of that bike.
And when Lewis took the lead clean, calculated and brilliant you were on your feet with everyone else, screaming his name like youâd been a fan your whole life.
You watched the race from the edge of the paddock, heart in your throat, barely blinking as he carved through corners with surgical precision. Every lap was a masterclass controlled aggression, perfect timing, a kind of grace that didnât seem possible at 300 kilometres an hour.
He made it look effortless. Like the car was an extension of his will. Like he wasnât driving it he was dancing with it. When he crossed the finish line, fist raised, the crowd erupted. Flags waved. Flares lit. People screamed themselves hoarse.
But you barely heard them. You were too busy trying to breathe. Because in that moment, as the checkered flag waved and the world lost its mind, you werenât thinking about the race. You werenât thinking about the victory. You were thinking about what came next.
About the MV Agusta. About the ride. About the moment your life might finally shift from watching to doing. From dreaming to living.
And somewhere deep in your chest, that familiar hum returned. The one that had lived there since you were a child. The one that sounded like freedom.
Soon then came the waiting.
You told yourself not to expect anything. Maybe he was just being nice. Maybe it was a throwaway promise, the kind people make in passing and forget the moment they walk away.
You tried to be rational. Tried to convince yourself it didnât matter. You told yourself it was enough just to have seen the MV Agusta up close. Enough to have spoken to him. Enough to have been seen.
But still you waited.
The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the paddock. The golden hour had arrived, painting the world in warm amber and softening the edges of everything.
The grandstands were emptying, the roar of the crowd replaced by the clatter of packing crates, the hiss of cooling engines, and the occasional bark of a radio. The energy had shifted no longer electric, but hushed. Reverent. Like the circuit itself was exhaling.
Your friend had already left, offering you a ride back that you politely declined. They gave you a look half teasing, half knowing but didnât press. Just squeezed your shoulder and disappeared into the thinning crowd.
You stayed rooted to the spot, arms crossed, trying not to look like someone who was hoping. But your eyes kept drifting toward the service gate. Toward the place where heâd first appeared. You told yourself you werenât waiting for him.
But you were. And then you heard it.
That growl. That low, unmistakable rumble that vibrated through your chest before your ears even registered it. The sound of something alive. Something powerful. Something that didnât belong to this world of packing tape and forklifts and fading adrenaline.
The MV Agusta.
He pulled up right in front of you, the red paint of the bike glowing like embers in the fading light. Helmet in one hand, leather jacket unzipped just enough to show the Ferrari red beneath once again. His braids were damp with sweat, clinging to his neck, and his smile - God, that smile was the kind that made your knees forget how to function.
âTold you Iâd come back for you,â he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. You blinked, stunned for a moment that he was real. That heâd remembered. That heâd meant it. âYou did,â you said, voice a little breathless. He patted the seat behind him. âHop on.â
Your legs moved before your brain caught up. You didnât hesitate. You couldnât. You climbed on, heart hammering, fingers trembling slightly as you settled behind him. You hovered awkwardly for a second, unsure where to place your hands, until he glanced back over his shoulder and said, âHold on tight, yeah?â
So you did.
Your arms wrapped around his waist, your palms pressing against the warmth of his jersey. Your chest met his back, and in that second, something clicked into place. Like a gear finally engaging. Like youâd been waiting your whole life for this exact moment and didnât even know it.
He looked down at your hands, then back at you with a smirk. âYou good?â You nodded, cheeks flushed. âYeah. Just trying not to pass out.â He laughed, low and warm. âDonât worry. Iâve got you.â
The bike roared beneath you, a living thing waking up, and then you were moving. The world blurred.
The wind tore past your face, tugging at your hair, stealing your breath in the best possible way. The engineâs pulse thrummed through your body, syncing with your heartbeat. Every turn, every lean, every shift in weight was a conversation between man and machine and now, you were part of it.
He didnât go too fast. He didnât need to.
It wasnât about speed. It was about sensation. The way the tires kissed the road. The way the engine growled when he downshifted. The way your body moved with his, instinctively, like youâd done this a thousand times in dreams. You could feel the tension in his core as he leaned into corners, the subtle shifts in his posture, the way he anticipated the road like it was a loverâs breath.
You tightened your grip around his waist, your cheek brushing against the back of his shoulder. He smelled like leather and sweat and something faintly metallic like speed itself had a scent.
At one point, he reached down and tapped your hand gently. âYou okay back there?â You nodded against his back. âMore than okay.â He chuckled. âYouâre a natural.â You smiled, even though he couldnât see it. âTold you Iâve been waiting my whole life.â
Eventually, he slowed, easing the bike to a stop beneath a canopy of trees just outside the circuit. The road was quiet here, the world hushed and golden. The only sound was the ticking of the engine as it cooled, and the soft rustle of leaves overhead.
You didnât move. You didnât want to. Your arms stayed wrapped around him, your cheek resting lightly against his back, eyes closed as you tried to memorise the feeling.
He let you stay like that for a moment, then slowly pulled off his helmet and rested it in his lap. âSo?â he asked, voice soft, teasing. âWorth the wait?â
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your cheeks aching from the smile you couldnât contain. âI think Iâm in love.â
He raised an eyebrow, amused. âWith me or the bike?â
You pretended to think about it, lips twitching. ââŠBoth.â
That laugh low, warm and genuine rippled through the air like music. You wanted to hear it again. And again. And again.
He turned slightly on the seat, facing you more fully now. His eyes searched yours, something unreadable flickering behind them. Then he reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.
âGood answer,â he said.
You looked at him, really looked at him. The way the light caught in his eyes. The way his smile softened when he wasnât performing for cameras. The way he was still here, with you, long after the race was over.
âYou didnât have to come back,â you said quietly.
âI know,â he replied. âBut I wanted to.â
You swallowed, your throat suddenly tight. âWhy?â
He shrugged, but there was nothing casual about the way he looked at you. âBecause you werenât looking at the fame. Or the trophies. You were looking at the bike. Like it meant something. Like you meant it.â
âI did,â you whispered.
âI know,â he said.
And just like that, the ache youâd carried for years the longing, the waiting, the what-ifs melted into something else entirely.
Something real, electric and what felt a lot like the beginning of everything.
From that day after exchanging numbers, it a started with a few texts.
Nothing dramatic. No grand declarations or sweeping gestures. Just bits of digital dust scattered across your days a âthank youâ here, a quick check in there.
A meme that made you laugh harder than expected. A photo of a bike he saw on the street and thought youâd appreciate. A blurry snapshot of a sunrise from a hotel balcony somewhere in Monaco, captioned simply: âThis reminded me of that ride.â
All of it easy. Unassuming. The kind of connection that begins like a whisper and you donât notice until the echo starts sounding like a heartbeat.
You told yourself it was casual. Friendly. A novelty, maybe. But then came the late night messages the ones you found waiting when the sky was ink dark and quiet curled around your apartment like a blanket. The kind of messages that didnât rush, didnât push just drifted.
They were filled with little fragments of him: rambling thoughts about music heâd just rediscovered, memories of being thirteen and pretending to understand the world, half formed dreams heâd never said aloud. Sometimes heâd send voice notes, his voice low and a little rough with sleep, like he was talking just to you in the hush between midnight and morning.
You found yourself answering without thinking. Trading thoughts like lanterns along a foggy trail. Lighting each other's darkness.
You learned he took his coffee black not out of stoicism, but simplicity. That his mornings were sacred: vinyl records crackling in the background, sunlight pooling in corners and engines always engines waiting to be brought to life. He told you about the way he liked to tinker in silence, how the world felt softer when he had grease on his hands and time to spare.
He learned that you talked to machines like friends. That you whispered to engines. That you built them with care but never rode them with confidence.
That for all the steel beneath your fingertips, you had never trusted yourself to fly. You told him about your dad, about the garage that raised you, about the ache that lived just beneath your ribs the one that sounded like an idling engine waiting for the throttle.
He listened. And when he replied, it wasnât with platitudes or advice. It was with understanding. With quiet reverence. Like your story was something sacred.
It wasnât meant to be more. You werenât looking for anything. You told yourself that, even as his voice started carving quiet corners in your day. Even as you found yourself replaying his words not because they were profound, but because they made you feel like you mattered. Like you were seen.
Then came coffee. Real coffee. At a tiny café tucked between a bookstore and a florist, the kind of place that smelled like old books and cardamom and had mismatched chairs that creaked when you leaned back.
He was already there when you arrived, a paperback novel in one hand and a cappuccino in the other. He looked up and smiled like heâd been waiting for you his whole life.
You sat across from him and listened to him talk about torque and poetry as if they were interchangeable. He spoke about engines the way some people spoke about constellations like they were maps to something bigger.
You told him about the first time you held a spanner, how it felt like holding a sword. He told you about the first time he crashed a kart and how he cried not from pain, but from the fear that heâd never be allowed to race again.
Then came dinners. Slow, drawn out ones where time seemed to melt between candlelight and conversation. Youâd sit across from each other in dimly lit corners of quiet restaurants, sharing bites of dessert and stories you hadnât told anyone else. Heâd lean in when you spoke, elbows on the table, eyes locked on yours like the rest of the world had gone quiet.
Soon after came the walks. Late ones, through sleepy streets littered with golden light and the scent of jasmine. You didnât always talk. Sometimes you just wandered side by side, your shoulders grazing gently like turning pages.
And something about those walks made the silence between you feel like a language all its own. Heâd occasionally brush his fingers against yours, not quite holding your hand but not not holding it either. And every time, your heart would stutter like an engine catching fire.
Heâd point out stars and tell you their names. Youâd laugh and make up your own. Heâd tell you stories from the road lonely hotel rooms, early morning flights, the strange comfort of airports. Youâd tell him about the bikes youâd built, the ones that never left the garage, the ones that still waited for you like promises you hadnât kept.
It crept in quietly, that feeling. Didnât crash into you like a wave. It unfolded. Like a sunrise. Like a song you didnât realise you knew the words to until you were already singing along.
You stopped pretending it was nothing. Because it wasnât. It was him.
It was the way he remembered the smallest things you said. The way he sent you photos of dogs in motorcycle goggles (even included Roscoe on his). Or whenever he always asked if youâd eaten, if youâd slept, if you were okay. The way he looked at you like you were something rare. Something worth slowing down for.
It was the way he made you feel like you werenât just someone who built machines.
You were someone who deserved to ride them. And it was starting to feel like everything.
It slipped out mid bite over pasta at a tiny Italian place with too many candles and music that sounded like falling in love.
The kind of place where the tables were too close together and the wine glasses were too tall, where the air smelled like garlic and basil and something sweet baking in the back. The kind of place where time slowed down, where the flicker of candlelight made everything feel softer, more intimate like the world had dimmed its lights just for the two of you.
You were twirling linguine around your fork, half listening to him tell a story about crashing a scooter in Tuscany when you were younger, when your voice betrayed you. âI still want to learn how to ride.â
It wasnât planned. It wasnât rehearsed. It just fell out. Bare. Unfiltered. Honest in a way that surprised even you. Your fork hovered mid air. His voice stopped. His head snapped up, eyes locking onto yours with such intensity that for a moment, the restaurant around you disappeared. The clinking of cutlery, the low hum of conversation, the soft croon of Italian jazz all of it faded into silence.
It was just him. Just that spark equal parts surprise, thrill, and something deeper. Something reverent.
His smile bloomed instantly wide, genuine, the kind that made your chest feel like it was expanding with light. âYou mean it?â
You nodded, suddenly shy. âYeah. I mean I think I always have. I just never said it out loud.â
âIâll teach you,â he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. You laughed, flustered and unsure. The corners of your mouth twitched with nerves and something close to hope. âYouâre serious?â
âAs serious as I am about throttle control,â he replied, lifting his glass like he was making a toast to a promise he already knew heâd keep. âTo first rides.â
You clinked your glass against his, heart fluttering like a revving engine.
Your first lesson? Chaos.
You met just after sunrise, in the still hush of dawn. The sky was barely awake streaked in lilac and gold, soft like the inside of a dream. The car park was empty. Silent. A perfect place for beginnings. The kind of place where the world felt paused, like it was holding its breath just for you.
He was already there when you arrived, leaning against the tailgate of his truck, sipping coffee from a thermos. He looked up and smiled when he saw you sleepy eyed, hoodie half-zipped, helmet dangling from your fingers.
âMorning, rookie,â he teased gently, handing you a second cup. âYou ready?â
You nodded, even though your stomach was a knot of nerves. âAs Iâll ever be.â
He brought a smaller bike. Sleek, warm toned, forgiving. A machine that felt like it was waiting for you. He moved slowly, explaining each control with a patience so tender it almost hurt. Like he understood how fragile this moment was for you. Like he knew you werenât just learning to ride you were learning to believe.
You stalled three times.
Your hands trembled. Your legs felt too long, too clumsy. The handlebars were uncooperative. The machine was unfamiliar. You questioned every instinct. Overthought every move. And when you nearly tipped it trying to start in second gear, you wanted to scream.
But he didnât flinch. He didnât tease.
He just stepped forward, placed both hands on the bars, and said in a voice so steady it couldâve anchored you, âYouâve got this. Just listen to her. Sheâll tell you what she needs.â
You paused. Closed your eyes. Felt the engineâs hum. And listened. You began to hear her.
Little by little, you stopped fighting her rhythm and started to find your own. Your grip loosened. Your spine relaxed. The bike started to feel like it wanted you there. Like it had been waiting for you too.
When you did your first solo loop slow, wobbly and unsure it felt like something cracked open inside your chest. The wind kissed your face. The tires spun like poetry. And you knew youâd never be the same.
You pulled up, helmet off, hair messy, grin blooming across your face like sunrise. And he was there.
Leaning against the hood of his truck. Smiling like youâd just rewritten gravity.
âTold you,â he said, his voice low, amused, proud. You walked over, still breathless and bumped your shoulder against his. âYouâre not a bad teacher.â
He raised an eyebrow. âNot bad?â You smirked. âOkay, fine. Youâre annoyingly good.â
He chuckled, and the sound wrapped around you like a warm jacket. âYouâre a natural. You just needed someone to believe it.â
You looked at him then really looked. The way the morning light caught in his eyes. The way his hair curled slightly at the ends. The way he looked at you like you were something rare.
And in that moment, you realised you trusted him. Unconditionally. Irrevocably. Quietly.
The first kiss didnât come right away. Not because you werenât ready.
But because the story was still unfolding delicate and deliberate, like a song building toward its crescendo. You both knew it was coming. You could feel it in the way your conversations lingered, in the way your hands brushed when passing a helmet, in the way your eyes met and held just a second too long. But neither of you rushed it. You let it bloom in its own time.
It came after an evening ride one of many, but somehow different.
The city was cloaked in twilight, that in-between hour where the sky glowed lavender and the streetlights blinked awake one by one. The air was warm, tinged with the scent of rain that hadnât yet fallen.
You rode his spare bike sleek, responsive and surprisingly gentle beneath your hands. Heâd adjusted the levers for your reach, softened the suspension, even added a tank pad with a tiny sticker of a cartoon fox. You hadnât asked for any of it. He just noticed.
You rode side by side, your engines humming in harmony, like two heartbeats syncing across distance. At stoplights, your helmets would turn toward each other silent glances, shared grins, the occasional exaggerated eyebrow wiggle that made you laugh inside your visor.
Sometimes heâd rev his engine playfully, daring you to race. Sometimes youâd take the bait, surging forward with a whoop that echoed down the empty streets.
You wove through the city like it belonged to you past shuttered cafés and glowing windows, past couples walking hand-in-hand and kids chasing each other through fountains. The world felt quieter from the saddle of a bike. More intimate. Like you were skimming the surface of something sacred.
He led you through winding backstreets and over bridges that shimmered with reflections. At one point, you stopped at a red light and he reached over to tap your gloved hand. âYouâre getting smoother,â he said through the comms, his voice warm in your ear. âYouâre not fighting her anymore.â
You smiled, heart fluttering. âI think she likes me.â
âSheâd be crazy not to.â
You didnât answer. You didnât need to.
Eventually, he took a turn you didnât recognise, guiding you up a narrow road that climbed above the city. The incline was steep, the trees thick on either side, their branches arching overhead like a cathedral. At the top, the road opened into a small overlook a hilltop park with a view that stole your breath.
The city sprawled below, glittering like a spilled jewellery box. Skyscrapers blinked in the distance. Streetlights traced the curves of roads like veins. The sky above was a deep indigo, stars just beginning to pierce through.
You parked side by side, the engines ticking as they cooled. You both pulled off your helmets, hair tousled, cheeks flushed. He looked over at you, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then he smiled. âWorth the climb?â You nodded, breathless. âItâs beautiful.â
He walked over, took your helmet, and set it gently beside his. Then he sat on the grass, patting the spot next to him. You joined him, your knees brushing, your jackets rustling softly in the breeze.
The air smelled like pine and distant rain. The wind whispered secrets between your shoulders. You sat in silence for a while, just watching the city breathe.
He leaned back on his elbows, eyes on the stars. âYou ever think about how fast everything changes?â
You turned to him, your voice soft. âAll the time.â
He looked at you.. His gaze traced your face like he was memorising it. Like he didnât want to miss a single detail. The curve of your cheek. The way your lashes caught the light. The way your lips parted slightly when you were thinking.
He reached out, tucked a curl behind your ear. His fingers lingered light, reverent, like tracing the edge of a map he never wanted to leave.
Your breath hitched. Your heart stammered.
He leaned in. No rush. No bravado.
Just closeness.
His lips met yours soft, careful, exploratory. Like he was asking a question with his mouth and waiting for the answer in your sigh.
You melted into him.
Your fingers found his jacket, clutching like memory. His hands curved around your back, grounding you. The kiss deepened became something rich and aching. It tasted like adrenaline and promise. Like every night ride and whispered confession bundled into one sacred exchange.
Time vanished.
You only knew the warmth of his mouth, the steady thrum of his pulse, the way your bodies aligned like constellations.
It wasnât a kiss. It was ignition.
When you finally pulled apart, your foreheads rested together, breath mingling in the space between. He whispered, âIâve wanted to do that since the first time you looked at the MV like it was alive.â You laughed softly, your voice trembling. âIâve wanted to do that since you told me I could ride.â
He smiled, eyes crinkling. âYou can do anything.â
Later, you would think of it as the moment the story changed gears. The instant âusâ became inevitable. And you didnât look back.
You left your helmet by his door.
Not because you forgot it. Not because you didnât need it. But because it felt right like a declaration, like a key. Like saying, Iâll be back. Like saying, This is home now, too.
It sat there on the little bench in his entryway, next to his own your visors facing each other like they were in conversation. Sometimes heâd glance at it when he walked past and a smile would tug at the corner of his mouth. Like he couldnât quite believe it either. Like every time he saw it, he was reminded that you were real. That this was real.
You planned routes together.
Not just rides, but escapes. Adventures. Youâd sit cross-legged on the floor with maps spread out between you, fingers tracing winding roads and coastal curves, arguing playfully over which detour had the better view or which diner had the best pie.
Heâd always let you win. Except when he didnât just to make you roll your eyes and call him impossible. Heâd grin and say, âYou love it,â and youâd pretend to groan, even though you did. You loved all of it.
You built a life threaded with engine noise and moonlit silences.
Mornings started with coffee and the low purr of tuning bikes. Heâd hand you a mug with oil stained fingers, kiss your temple, and say something like, âSheâs running smoother today must be your magic touch.â
Afternoons were spent in garages, hands greasy, laughter echoing off concrete walls. Youâd pass him tools without looking, the way your dad once did with you and heâd always get this look like he knew he was part of something sacred.
Evenings were quieter shared meals, soft music, the occasional race replay on mute while you curled into each other on the couch. And nights? Nights were sacred. Nights were for rides.
Every Friday night rain or shine, busy or restless you rode.
It became your ritual. Your rhythm. Your shared breath.
You chased sunsets like they owed you something. Wove through city lights like you were painting the streets with your joy. Found cafés that smelled like nostalgia places with chipped mugs and faded menus and jukeboxes that still worked. You sat at cliffs where the stars bled into the sea, where the wind tangled your hair and the world felt impossibly wide and yet entirely yours.
You made your own religion.
A faith built on throttle, trust, and the curve of his smile beside yours. On the way heâd reach over at red lights to squeeze your hand. Sometimes your helmets would knock together when you leaned in to shout something over the roar of the wind. Other times it would be the way he always rode just a little behind you not because he didnât trust you, but because he liked watching you lead.
And sometimes, it wasnât all open roads and sweeping views. More so, it was traffic.
Gridlocked intersections. Horns blaring. The sun beating down on your backs as you inched forward, foot by foot. But even then, it was magic. Youâd pull up beside him, engines idling, and lift your visor just enough to smirk.
âStill think this shortcut was a good idea?â youâd tease, voice dry.
Heâd glance over, eyes twinkling behind his visor. âAbsolutely. Look at this view.â Heâd gesture to the bumper of the car in front of him and youâd snort.
Then, when the light turned green and you still didnât move, youâd reach over and pinch his side just a quick, playful squeeze through his jacket. Heâd jolt, laughing, and shout, âHey! Thatâs rider misconduct!â
Youâd grin. âFile a complaint.â Heâd lean closer, voice low and mock-serious. âOh, I will. Straight to the Department of Adorable Offences.â
Youâd roll your eyes, but your cheeks would ache from smiling.
Even traffic was beautiful with him.
One night, after a long ride along the coast, you pulled off onto a quiet overlook.
The road had curved like ribbon through the cliffs, the ocean always just to your left dark and endless, whispering secrets to the shore. The ride had been long, but neither of you had wanted it to end. The wind had tangled your hair, the salt had kissed your skin and the hum of the engine had become a lullaby you didnât want to wake from.
Now, the bikes sat cooling behind you, their engines ticking softly in the hush. The overlook was empty, save for the two of you. The moon hung low and full, casting silver light across the waves. The sea stretched out like a mirror, reflecting stars that looked close enough to touch.
You leaned against him, your back to his chest, his arms wrapped around you like a second skin. His jacket was warm from the ride, his heartbeat steady against your spine. You could feel the rise and fall of his breath, the way his chin rested lightly on your shoulder, the way his fingers traced idle circles against your hip.
Your voice came quiet, almost lost to the wind. âMy dad wouldâve liked you.â
He didnât answer right away. Just held you a little tighter, like he knew the weight of what youâd just said.
âYeah?â he murmured eventually, his voice low, thoughtful. You nodded, your fingers threading through his. âHe always said machines have souls. I think yours does too.â
He turned you gently, just enough to see your face. His hands slid from your waist to your shoulders, then up to cradle your face with a tenderness that made your breath catch.
His fingers were rough from years of riding and driving calloused, strong but his touch was reverent. His thumbs brushed your cheekbones, slow and steady, like he was memorising the shape of you.
The moonlight caught the ink on his hands black lines and curves that wrapped around his knuckles and disappeared beneath his sleeves. Youâd traced them before, in quiet moments. You knew the stories behind each one. But now, they felt like something else entirely. Like a vow written in skin.
His eyes held yours, and there was something in them - something fierce and vulnerable, something that looked like awe. Like he couldnât believe you were real.
Then he leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear, his breath warm against your skin.
âNah,â he whispered. âYouâve got my soul now.â
And then he kissed you. Not soft. Not exploratory.
This one was rich with devotion. With certainty. With everything he hadnât said and everything you already knew.
His lips met yours with a kind of quiet urgency, like heâd been holding it in for too long. His hands framed your face, inked thumbs brushing your cheeks, fingers curling gently behind your ears. He kissed you like you were something sacred. Like you were the answer to every question heâd never dared to ask.
You kissed him back with everything you had.
Your hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket. You could feel the heat of him beneath the leather, the steady thrum of his heart, the way his breath hitched when your palms flattened over his sternum. You pressed closer, your body fitting against his like a puzzle piece finally finding its place.
The kiss deepened became something rich and aching. Your mouths moved together in perfect rhythm, like youâd done this a thousand times in dreams. His hands slid down to your jaw, then your neck, then your waist, pulling you closer still. You could feel the tension in his shoulders, the way he held you like he was afraid to let go.
It wasnât just a kiss. It was a vow.
It was the way his thumb brushed your cheek like a promise. The way your hands curled into his jacket like you were anchoring yourself to the moment. The way the world fell away until there was only the two of you, breathing the same air, hearts beating in tandem.
It felt like muscle memory. Like something your body had always known how to do. It felt like destiny.
Like every road youâd ever taken every wrong turn, every stalled engine, every lonely mile had led you here. It felt like the first time your tires hit open road.
That rush of freedom. That dizzying joy. That sense of finally.
It felt like home.
When you finally pulled apart, your foreheads rested together, breath mingling in the space between. His hands were still on your waist. Yours were still pressed to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart.
He whispered, âYou scare me.â You blinked, surprised. âWhy?â
âBecause I didnât think Iâd ever feel like this again,â he said, voice raw. âAnd now I donât know how to be without it.â You smiled, soft and sure. âThen donât be.â
And as they stood there, arms woven like the winding roads that had led them here, the salt air in their lungs and the rumble of distant waves echoing the low growl of their bikes, it was clear -
This wasnât just a chapter in their lives.
It was the road itself. Unmapped. Untamed. And they were ready to ride it together.
#lewis hamilton#lh44#lewis hamilton x reader#f1 x reader#lewis hamilton imagine#lh44 x reader#f1 imagine#x reader#lewis hamilton x you#lh44 imagine#lewis hamilton one shot#lewis hamilton x y/n#team lh44#f1 one shot#f1 fic#f1#f1 fanfic#formula 1#f1 drivers#formula 1 fanfic#formula one
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Tbh I don't think narnia depicts paganism and occultism in a positive ligit. Like, Lewis is not pro-occult or pro-pagan. He pretty clearly states that being a magician is a bad thing, and pretty explicitly says that interacting with Dionysus and the maenads without Christ is very dangerous.
There's a thing that happens when you enjoy and understand a theology so well that you can kinda morph it into whatever you want. This is how esoterica happens.
Every lesser divinity in Narnia is depicted as being subject to Aslan. They might be able to fuck with him, but ultimately they are subject to Christ.
He depicts magic as "Gods tools for shaping creation." In the sense of letting a toddler into a fully furnished machine shop. Like yeah, you can give a toddler a rotary saw, but it has no idea how to use it. It's far more likely to hurt itself than it is to build something beautiful.
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Nearly 50 years ago, long before smartphones and social media, the social critic Lewis Mumford put a name to the way that complex technological systems offer a share in their benefits in exchange for compliance. He called it a âbribe.â With this label, Mumford sought to acknowledge the genuine plentitude that technological systems make available to many people, while emphasizing that this is not an offer of a gift but of a deal. Surrender to the power of complex technological systems â allow them to oversee, track, quantify, guide, manipulate, grade, nudge, and surveil you â and the system will offer you back an appealing share in its spoils. What is good for the growth of the technological system is presented as also being good for the individual, and as proof of this, here is something new and shiny. Sure, that shiny new thing is keeping tabs on you (and feeding all of that information back to the larger technological system), but it also lets you do things you genuinely could not do before. For a bribe to be accepted it needs to promise something truly enticing, and Mumford, in his essay âAuthoritarian and Democratic Technics,â acknowledged that âthe bargain we are being asked to ratify takes the form of a magnificent bribe.â The danger, however, was that âonce one opts for the system no further choice remains.â For Mumford, the bribe was not primarily about getting people into the habit of buying new gadgets and machines. Rather it was about incorporating people into a world that complex technological systems were remaking in their own image. Anticipating resistance, the bribe meets people not with the boot heel, but with the gift subscription. The bribe is a discomforting concept. It asks us to consider the ways the things we purchase wind up buying us off, it asks us to see how taking that first bribe makes it easier to take the next one, and, even as it pushes us to reflect on our own complicity, it reminds us of the ways technological systems eliminate their alternatives. Writing about the bribe decades ago, Mumford was trying to sound the alarm, as he put it: âThis is not a prediction of what will happen, but a warning against what may happen.â As with all of his glum predictions, it was one that Mumford hoped to be proven wrong about. Yet as one scrolls between reviews of the latest smartphone, revelations about the latest misdeeds of some massive tech company, and commentary about the way we have become so reliant on these systems that we cannot seriously speak about simply turning them off â it seems clear that what Mumford warned âmay happenâ has indeed happened. The bribe can be a useful tool for understanding how we got where we are, and can be useful to keep in mind as we think about where we want to go next.
25 October 2021
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I hadn't even realised you could use AI to sharpen gifs, but I guess it makes sense given how widespread it is. Now that I know, is there any signs that AI has been used that I can look out for when engaging with gifs? I would rather not platform its use in fan content.
oh yea I've seen a good few blogs use it recently, you basically just pull your footage through a sharpening tool before giffing it.
but yea for sure! It's mostly the normal ai stuff but it can be a lil harder to catch. I'm not gonna sc or post these gifs bc this is not a call out for blogs that do use it yk.
but firstly, uncanny valley stuff. so no visible pores is a massive way to clock that it's ai. or hair moving in a weird way. another thing I've noticed is identifiable moles disappearing as a gif is moving.
secondly, you kinda notice like a second line around someone's face, this is so hard to explain without an example but it's basically a weird movement around the face happening.
thirdly, kinda again uncanny valley but if you look at their hair a lot of the times it moves weird, AI tried to fill in the gaps of stuff that the video itself can't see so when hair moves a machine tries to guess HOW it will move which tends to result in weird uncanny movement.
again, I don't wanna call out blogs bc it's their own choice to use ai or not so I don't want to go 'round giving examples and I can't really find anything on google rn that shows examples well but
if a gif looks to smooth to be true, probably ai, if lewis's pores look unreal, he doesn't have that magic of a skincare routine, it's ai. if someone's hand or face moves around a little confusingly, probably ai. etc etc.
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Late Night Repairs
In which the quiet becomes a bit too much for Mark to handle.
Hi folks, I'm back for a little bit because I really wanted to participate in #spookyseasoninthebarrens2024 by @jmathesonandsiblings so I wrote this quick little thing for my baby girl, Mark! :3
This is for prompt 6: Haunted House
Happy Halloween, y'all đ»
Warnings: isolation, auditory/visual/tactile hallucinations, grief, fear/anxiety, hopelessness, brief discussion of sleep deprivation, description of someone suffering/dying from suffocation/asphyxia, discussion of death, eye horror, blood, missing loved ones, angst (technically). Please, please, please let me know if I missed anything that should be added to this list.
The soft beeps of the CO2 scrubberâs emergency alarm are deceptively loud and make Mark jump as it cuts through the impossibly still silence that comes with the night. One thing he still hasnât gotten used to after being here for 23 days is how dead nighttime is on Mars. The increased thermal energy that comes with the sun usually yields soft winds that lightly rustle the HAB canvas and make small clouds of sand hit the airlock door, making it sound like heâs inside a rain stick. Once the sun sets though, an eerie silence creeps in with the sunsetâs cold, blue, Mie-scattered light.Â
Maybe heâs just really missing having his crewmates with him, but heâs quickly started to hate the stillness that comes with living on a dead planet by himself. The more unsavory side effects of his isolation are much more unbearable--thereâs something about not knowing when his solitude will end that makes the emptiness of his surroundings so much worse than the isolation training module he went through back on Earth. For the past few nights, every other corner he turns has an extra shadow he didnât account for; the occasional puff of wind feels just a little too much like a hand and the whirring of the water reclaimer and heating unit running sounds devastatingly like a murmur. It was easier to ignore the first couple of nights--filling the silence as best as he could with episodes of Happy Days and Commander Lewisâs disco. Sometimes though--when he needs to charge his iPad or when he hyper-focuses on his work and forgets to turn something on to fill the space with more than the sounds of his breathing and the rustling of tools--his mind fills the void for him. Sometimes itâs a persistent ringing in his ears, others itâs a convincing recreation of Martinezâs laugh muffled by the walls of the HAB and his memory, making him tear through the HAB trying to find his friend only to be met with nothing but his loneliness.Â
He finishes typing out his log for the day, outlining the maintenance tasks he completed to keep his tragically high-tech tomb operational (if heâs gonna die here, he might as well do so warm and breathing clean air), and stands up out of his chair with a strained groan. Scratching at the stubble growing on his cheek, Mark walks across the main room of the HAB bubble to the complaining machine and takes off the white panel hiding the ducts, intake valves, and pumps of the robust Four Bed CO2 scrubber. The mechanical engineer takes some time listening to the motors and pressure-driven sounds of the machine, trying to locate a clue as to what part of the damn thing is blocked up this time. A soft whistle coming from the interface between the pre-cooler and a pipe connecting it to bed A-2 catches Markâs attention, and he sees a small chunk of ice growing around the collar keeping the pipe in place at the valve.Â
âWell thereâs your problem,â Mark utters under his breath as he turns the apparatus off using a panel immediately to the right of the box containing it and slips on a pair of cryo-gloves before touching the parts surrounding the cooling element, lightly dusting off the collection of ice crystals surrounding the collar before carefully removing it and cleaning the ice clogging the mouth of the duct. He re-mates the duct and the valve, torquing it back to a satisfying tension, and turns the machine back on, the pumps chugging away happily now that the blockage is gone.Â
Mark nods and puts the cover back onto the front of the scrubberâs casing before turning around to append a record of the repair to the end of his log. Or, he would if he wasnât frozen in place staring out the porthole in the airlock door across the room from him. The scene outside is dark and barely perceivable due to the small diameter of the window and the contrast of the bright LED lights, but your piercing stare is something heâs profoundly accustomed to seeing--just⊠not outside the HABâs airlock. He tries to move but the muscles in his legs merely twitch uselessly with the idea of walking towards the glass of the porthole. He tries to blink, but an impending sense of doom prevents him from attempting to break the unexpected eye contact. His heart clenches agonizingly in his chest, and he can feel the beginnings of a sob bubble up from his chest. Logically he knows this is a hallucination--likely made worse by stress and sleep deprivation--but that doesnât stop him from calling out to you in a horse, pitiful squeak. His knees buckle slightly before the lights above him flicker and shut off, plunging him and the phantom image of you into near-full darkness.
 Your face is now only dimly illuminated by a light that didnât go out at the center of the room, but itâs enough for Mark to see angry red petechiae begin to bloom across your face, lips, and the delicate skin surrounding your now blood-shot eyes. The warmth drains from your face and his ears begin to ring as he watches you open your mouth, frothy and bloody fluid pouring beyond your lips. Heâs shaking now as he watches you scream silently at him through the fluid pouring down your chin, pins and needles accosting his hands and feet as he finally musters the strength to turn away from your dying, angry visage and squeeze his eyes shut. Â
âThis--this isnât real, thereâs no one thereâŠâ he mutters to himself, tears streaming down his cheeks as he tries to calm his breathing down. He opens his eyes again to discover that the lights either turned back on or were never off in the first place and he starts to lower his hackles, the muscles in his neck and shoulders beginning to relax. Slowly, Mark turns back around and looks through the porthole to find nothing staring back at him. Mark lets out a relieved, shaky breath before running a hand down his face and walking back to his chair to update his log. Typing the details of his repair with shaking hands he begins to properly sob and has to pause, scooting the chair back and winding an arm around his middle, the other raised to clasp his hand over his mouth to try to stop himself from screaming in grief and fear at both what his brain just conjured up and the very real possibility of never seeing you again and leaving you behind to mourn him. The force of his anguish makes him fold in on himself and he continues to sit there, trying to calm himself down at least for long enough to finish his log and get to bed.Â
After a bit, he feels the temperature drop and a shiver shoots down his spine. He goes rigid and his sobs stop abruptly and a soft, high-pitched, and short-lived whistle coming from somewhere else in the HAB commands his attention. The same feeling of dread oozes back into his chest as he listens to faint taps sound from behind him, getting louder as whatever is creating them gets closer to his chair and stops, letting emptiness fill the soundscape of the main lab space. In the silence, Mark can hear the blood rushing in his ears and his shaky breathing. With his eyes closed it almost begins to feel like heâs in his space EVA suit back on the Hermes. The sound of his breathing tapers off as he quiets enough to hold his breath and try to listen for either the sounds of the HAB or anything that would alert him to the presence of⊠something, anything behind him. Heâs about to let out his held breath when he feels shockingly cold fingers lightly wrap around the back of his neck, causing a terrified wail to rip out of his lungs as he stands up out of his chair and sees⊠nothing behind him.Â
Mark continues to stand and stare silently at the false wall behind him, raising a hand to touch the warm skin of the back of his neck and feeling goosebumps bloom across it. He basks in the violently loud silence before the tension is broken by the sound of the HABâs temperature control unit letting out a shrill, piercing tone alerting him to a new malfunction in its system.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thanks for reading!
works referenced:
4 Bed CO2 scrubber
The Martian Fan-Made Timeline
Wind on Mars
Sunsets on Mars -> Mie Scattering experiment!
Pathology of Asphyxial Death MAJOR CW: death, and suffocation both described in text and shown in images.
#the martian#mark watney#andy weir#the martian(2015)#mark watney x reader#technically#spookyseasoninthebarrens2024#writing event#horror#angst
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Lewis Machine & Tool Co. - LMTÂź L129 A1
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đïž Why Couldn't Verstappen Win the WC in 2020?
Main post! 2021 2022 2023 2024
The 2020 Season
Max Verstappen's journey to becoming a four-time Formula 1 World Champion (as of 2024) has been nothing short of remarkable. Each season brought unique challenges and triumphs that showcased his talent and Red Bull Racing's prowess. Letâs delve into how the 2020 championship slipped through his grasp before his great success!
The 2020 Formula 1 season was a significant turning point for Max Verstappen, despite the insurmountable dominance of Mercedes and Lewis Hamilton. Verstappenâs skill and determination shone through the challenges posed by the superior W11 car, widely considered one of the greatest machines in F1 history. Mercedes excelled across all metrics: power, aerodynamics, and reliability, with Hamilton taking 11 victories and teammate Valtteri Bottas adding two more. This left only two wins for Verstappen in a season where Red Bull's RB16 struggled to compete consistently at the top.
Red Bull RB16âs Struggles
The RB16 demonstrated promising peak performance but suffered from instability and inconsistency, especially in handling low-speed corners. Straight-line speed deficits also hindered Red Bull's challenge against the mighty Mercedes. Furthermore, the carâs setup was notoriously tricky, making it difficult for Verstappenâs teammate Alexander Albon to contribute meaningfully to the team's Constructorsâ Championship battle. Red Bullâs car development patternâtraditionally finding performance gains later in the seasonâalso played a role. By the time the RB16 became more competitive, Mercedes had already sealed the championship titles.
Reliability Woes
Reliability was a significant weakness for Verstappen in 2020. Mechanical issues led to costly DNFs at the Tuscan Grand Prix (collision) and the Emilia Romagna Grand Prix (tyre failure), among others. These setbacks prevented Verstappen from consistently capitalizing on opportunities, leaving him further behind in the title fight.
Standout Performances
Despite these challenges, Verstappenâs talent was evident in his standout performances. His victory at the 70th Anniversary Grand Prix at Silverstone came through clever tyre management, as he capitalized on Mercedes' struggles with blistering in high temperatures. Similarly, his dominant win at the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, the season finale, showcased Red Bullâs improvement and Verstappenâs ability to execute a perfect race when given the right tools.
Lessons for 2021
The struggles of 2020 laid the groundwork for Verstappenâs eventual success. Red Bullâs understanding of the RB16âs weaknesses informed the development of the RB16B for 2021, which proved capable of matching Mercedes on more occasions. Verstappenâs experiences from 2020 also helped him mature as a driver, improving his consistency and adaptability, setting the stage for his first championship-winning campaign.
2020 was not just a season of lost opportunities for Verstappen but a critical learning curve that prepared him for the fierce title battle to come.
Please donât copy my workđ
#max verstappen#lewis hamilton#formula 1#formula one#red bull racing#red bull f1#mercedes amg f1#sir lewis hamilton#mercedes f1#ferrari#alex albon#f1 2020
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den mother Tony from "oh don't you dare look back, just keep your eyes on me" AU excerpt:
âWhat?â Tony says in alarm, jerking his head up from the repulsor he was in the middle of fine-tuning. He thinks he just hallucinated something.
âWe need you to babysit for this rut,â Darcy repeats from the other end of the video call. The sentence makes no more sense the second time around.
âNo you donât,â Tony says inanely. âWhereâs Barton?â
âHome,â Darcy says.
"Rogers?"
"Mission with Natasha and Sam."
âThor and Foster?â
âOff-planet.â
âPepper?â
âRunning your company.â
â. . . J.A.R.V.I.S.?â
âTony,â Darcy says patiently. âCan you handle this or not?â
âWhat?â Tony sputters indignantly. âI canâabsolutely I can handle this! I am more than capable of handling this!â
âOkay,â Darcy says. âWeâll drop the pups off in an hour, then.â
âOkay!â Tony says. âThatâs fine. That works. I can handle that.â
âThanks, Tony,â Darcy says, and hangs up. Tony panics.
âJ.A.R.V.I.S.!â he says, dropping his tools. âWhat just happened?!â
âYou agreed to babysit the children for the duration of Ms. Lewisâs upcoming rut, sir,â J.A.R.V.I.S. says. Tony panics further.
âThey asked me to babysit?!â he says.
âYes, sir.â
âOn purpose?!â
âApparently, sir.â
âFuck!â
Tony does the reasonable thing, which is to call Pepper on the emergency frequency. She answers, looking alarmed.
âWhatâs wrong?!â she says.
âThey want me to babysit!â Tony says frantically. Pepper . . . pauses.
âWhat,â she says.
âBabysit!â Tony repeats, gesturing wildly.
âTony,â Pepper says with a clear lack of respect for the crisis level Tony is currently operating at. âIâm in the middle of a meeting.â
âI know,â Tony lies.
âJ.A.R.V.I.S., please pencil us in for a call in an hour,â Pepper says with a sigh.
âAn hour?!â Tony protests. "They're getting here in an hour!"
âAn hour,â she repeats firmly. âIâll call you back then.â
âPepperâ!â
âAn hour,â Pepper says, and ends the call. Tony groans, dropping his head into his grease-stained hands, then mutters a curse as he remembers the machine oil and grit all over them. This is what he gets for taking calls when heâs working, he thinks. This is what he gets for ever taking calls at all.
âI cannot believe they want me to babysit,â he says.
âMs. Lewis did say you were the last option, sir,â J.A.R.V.I.S. says, which is not helpful.
âSo how was I an option at all, then?!â Tony demands. âThey know me! They know better than this! Whatâs wrong with Bruce?!â
âDr. Banner informed Ms. Lewis and Sergeant Barnes that he was not capable of babysitting fairly early in the childrenâs lives,â J.A.R.V.I.S. reminds him.
âYes, but that was him being paranoid about the Hulk, not him actually being incompetant to do it!â Tony says, getting up to start pacing behind the workbench. âIâm incompetant to do it!â
âI wouldnât know, sir,â J.A.R.V.I.S. says, which, again, is not helpful. Tony groans again.
âOh my god, Iâm not prepared for this,â he says. âTheyâre dropping them off in an hour. One hour. My lab isnât childproofed!â
âYes it is, sir,â J.A.R.V.I.S reminds him. âYouâve updated the childproofing in the Tower twice this year.â
âNot enough!â Tony says. âHow often are they actually in here unsupervised? Never! They are never in here unsupervised!â
âYou are technically supervision, sir,â J.A.R.V.I.S. says.
âTechnically at best!â Tony says. âAt best!â
âI suppose, sir,â J.A.R.V.I.S. says.
âWhereâs Bruce?!â Tony demands, looking around the lab. Heâs this close to calling Rhodeyâs emergency frequency too, but Bruce is definitely closer. Rhodeyâs in another damn state right now, and frankly it's a miracle it's not another damn country.
"I believe Dr. Banner is currently in his personal lab," J.A.R.V.I.S. says.
"Call him!" Tony says.
"Is that really the best idea right now, sir?" J.A.R.V.I.S. says.
"An hour, J.A.R.V.I.S.!" Tony says.
"I'll see if he's available, sir," J.A.R.V.I.S. says diplomatically. He's saying "sir" an awful lot, which Tony suspects is him trying to placate him or something equally ridiculous, but he's too frazzled to call out his own AI for patronizing him right now. People are leaving children with him. On purpose! And he agreed to it!
He definitely does not have time to call out J.A.R.V.I.S. right now.
"Tony?" Bruce says as a screen pops up in front of him. "Is something wrong?"
"I need you in the fabrication lab," Tony says, because "come help me babysit the Winter Soldier's pups before I fuck them up" is obviously not gonna work. Bruce would probably just leave the damn Tower if he tried that. Possibly the country.
"I'll be right there," Bruce says, getting up from his seat as the screen blinks out. Small victories, Tony thinks.
"That wasn't entirely honest, sir," J.A.R.V.I.S. says mildly disapprovingly. Tony still doesn't have time for AI patronization.
"It's an emergency," he says feelingly. "Bruce can be mad at me later, when the kids aren't all traumatized for life. Now what in this place is flammable and where can I hide it?"
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Bayesian Active Exploration: A New Frontier in Artificial Intelligence
The field of artificial intelligence has seen tremendous growth and advancements in recent years, with various techniques and paradigms emerging to tackle complex problems in the field of machine learning, computer vision, and natural language processing. Two of these concepts that have attracted a lot of attention are active inference and Bayesian mechanics. Although both techniques have been researched separately, their synergy has the potential to revolutionize AI by creating more efficient, accurate, and effective systems.
Traditional machine learning algorithms rely on a passive approach, where the system receives data and updates its parameters without actively influencing the data collection process. However, this approach can have limitations, especially in complex and dynamic environments. Active interference, on the other hand, allows AI systems to take an active role in selecting the most informative data points or actions to collect more relevant information. In this way, active inference allows systems to adapt to changing environments, reducing the need for labeled data and improving the efficiency of learning and decision-making.
One of the first milestones in active inference was the development of the "query by committee" algorithm by Freund et al. in 1997. This algorithm used a committee of models to determine the most meaningful data points to capture, laying the foundation for future active learning techniques. Another important milestone was the introduction of "uncertainty sampling" by Lewis and Gale in 1994, which selected data points with the highest uncertainty or ambiguity to capture more information.
Bayesian mechanics, on the other hand, provides a probabilistic framework for reasoning and decision-making under uncertainty. By modeling complex systems using probability distributions, Bayesian mechanics enables AI systems to quantify uncertainty and ambiguity, thereby making more informed decisions when faced with incomplete or noisy data. Bayesian inference, the process of updating the prior distribution using new data, is a powerful tool for learning and decision-making.
One of the first milestones in Bayesian mechanics was the development of Bayes' theorem by Thomas Bayes in 1763. This theorem provided a mathematical framework for updating the probability of a hypothesis based on new evidence. Another important milestone was the introduction of Bayesian networks by Pearl in 1988, which provided a structured approach to modeling complex systems using probability distributions.
While active inference and Bayesian mechanics each have their strengths, combining them has the potential to create a new generation of AI systems that can actively collect informative data and update their probabilistic models to make more informed decisions. The combination of active inference and Bayesian mechanics has numerous applications in AI, including robotics, computer vision, and natural language processing. In robotics, for example, active inference can be used to actively explore the environment, collect more informative data, and improve navigation and decision-making. In computer vision, active inference can be used to actively select the most informative images or viewpoints, improving object recognition or scene understanding.
Timeline:
1763: Bayes' theorem
1988: Bayesian networks
1994: Uncertainty Sampling
1997: Query by Committee algorithm
2017: Deep Bayesian Active Learning
2019: Bayesian Active Exploration
2020: Active Bayesian Inference for Deep Learning
2020: Bayesian Active Learning for Computer Vision
The synergy of active inference and Bayesian mechanics is expected to play a crucial role in shaping the next generation of AI systems. Some possible future developments in this area include:
- Combining active inference and Bayesian mechanics with other AI techniques, such as reinforcement learning and transfer learning, to create more powerful and flexible AI systems.
- Applying the synergy of active inference and Bayesian mechanics to new areas, such as healthcare, finance, and education, to improve decision-making and outcomes.
- Developing new algorithms and techniques that integrate active inference and Bayesian mechanics, such as Bayesian active learning for deep learning and Bayesian active exploration for robotics.
Dr. Sanjeev Namjosh: The Hidden Math Behind All Living Systems - On Active Inference, the Free Energy Principle, and Bayesian Mechanics (Machine Learning Street Talk, October 2024)
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Saturday, October 26, 2024
#artificial intelligence#active learning#bayesian mechanics#machine learning#deep learning#robotics#computer vision#natural language processing#uncertainty quantification#decision making#probabilistic modeling#bayesian inference#active interference#ai research#intelligent systems#interview#ai assisted writing#machine art#Youtube
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Last Monday of the Week 2024-10-28
Back in the saddle
Listening: Went to a show at DNA Lounge, the nightclub run by James Zawinski of Netscape and Firefox and Xscreensaver fame. Small show, thursday night deal, but pretty good. Main event was I Speak Machine.
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Good show! Lots of screechy unnerving sounds, and a really well choreographed stage performance that pairs with replays of the music videos very precisely that was impressive to watch.
Reading: About halfway through The city and the city which is extremely funny in a very dark way. What do you do about border control when two cities exist in the same space, do you simply give up and allow people to mix freely? No, that's insane, you enforce rigid customs and laws to prevent the mixing of two spatially colocated populations from different countries. Duh. I should read more Mieville.
Watching: Watched Solo: A Star Wars Story on the plane mostly to pad out the front half of a flight until my scheduled sleep time. It's not a good movie! Every other line feels like a pick-up mandated by an anxious marketing team who were worried someone might not understand what's going on. Near constantly explaining the blatantly obvious.
Look. Okay. Han Solo can be an interesting guy. He is a scoundrel with a heart of gold which is a great archetype to play. They decide to play this bizarrely.
I cut the weird style some slack. Much like Rogue One, they were trying to see what happens if you make a movie that isn't a samurai movie in the Star Wars universe, in this case this is a sort of war refugee/insurgency/espionage deal. I think that's interesting. The imperial trench warfare raises patently unanswerable questions about the state of the imperial military. Making Han an ex-Imperial soldier could be more interesting if they played into it at all but they don't. Which is stupid. They have Qi'ra taking up with Crimson Dawn which is a great parallel! It writes itself!
In a great example of not trusting the audience the final-ish scene features Qi'ra talking to Darth Maul, the most recognizable motherfucker in the Star Wars Universe and they have him deploy his lightsaber for no fucking reason JUST IN CASE YOU DIDN'T GET IT IT'S DARTH MAUL YOU KNOW THE GUY FROM PHANTOM MENACE? WITH THE DUAL LIGHTSABER? IT'S THAT GUY. They should have saved some time by providing ushers in the theaters with physical copies of the script so that they could individually beat moviegoers over the head with them.
Playing: Gave my partner a brief tour of the games library while they were hanging out which ended in us playing Drink More Glurp together, which is a fantastic party game, gotta organize that with my friends sometime. If you haven't played Glurp, it's a QWOP-like party game where you play various chopped-and-screwed sports events as aliens with two huge arms and a freespinning body where each stick on a controller controls one arm. Watch this LRR stream to see it in action.
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Making: Busy with some printing designs but they are not yet realized. Also I have other things to do including Diwali foods. Technically the timeline is really tight but no one else knows when Diwali is so I can do whatever I want.
Tools and Equipment: A coat with a lot of pockets plus a window seat on a plane means you can use the coat hook on the seat in front of you to stash a large number of readily accessible items in a convenient way without really inconveniencing anyone if you plan this out correctly.
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I know its been a day, but I wasnât able to watch the race fully yesterday, and this is my take on what I saw
Firstly, VCARB. The cars just wasnât there this weekend, and we canât lie, their quali and the fact that they kind of got stuck all throughout the race cost them, and being stuck behind someone in a track like Circuit de Catalunya, which teams go for 2-3 stops in because tyres are dead, and with dirty air. Yeah it just wasnât it for these guys. But hopefully next seek they are able to be back, because they do have the speed, and they could go far in terms if points this tear.
Williams just arenât on the right foot all year. And this race was no exception, poor quali, slowest car. You canât expect your drivers to compete if you donât give them the tools. 2023 parts in the 2024 car for a driver and the other that had the 2024 parts still is p18. Yeah, they need to get their shit together and stop blaming Logan for not getting points when nit providing him with the Machine and an equal opportunity as his team mate, who isnât also performing.
Aston Martin was in the wring foot this week. The car isnât bad, but they still need to wirk hard. A team like them is âsupposedlyâ a top 5 team in the constructors. Thatâs what they gave us last year. But they need to work on their car because it just is not adding up.
Alpine, double points for the second week running is VERY impressive and important because of their tractor at the beginning of the season. They seemed to have put the work and itâs starting to show. But in order for it to be a fair comparison, give both your drivers the lighter chassis, not just one while leaving the other with the overweight one, and expect hin to perform greatly. It just doesnât make much sense tbh.
Ferrari are way better than Canada, thatâs for sure. Getting back up after a hard blow is not something easy, but they were not too bad all weekend, but they were also not that good. Charles and Carlos having an incident, then Carlos and Lewis. Carlos is getting frustrated for sure, but he needs to get his head in the game, because these silly mistakes could coat him , Charles and Ferrari points, like it did in Canada. But nonetheless, their strategy was not on point , with pitting Charles quite late, almost same time as Lando, it cost him a fight fir forth or even third place.
Second race in a row, second Mercedes podium. Tbh, these upgrades have given both George and Lewis so much confidence in their cars, with the lead that George stole fron Lando, to both being able to keep Lando, in the fastest car of the race behind them a couple of laps, to their calls. They are on the right trajectory and itâs something we donât hate to see.
McLaren are getting cocky. And donât get me wring, Iâm impressed with their progress in one year, but theyâre getting too cocky for their own good. Oscar did a phenomenal race from starting in p9 to ending p7, overtaking and a right strategy, but heâs in the fastest car, and couldnât get past the Ferraris who were on a considerably âwrong footâ since Canada. Meanwhile Landi started on pole, by the end of lap 1, lost 2 positions, tried to overtake and got stuck in dirty air, and when his engineer asked him , he said fight for the win, which I respect, but fucked his strategy with the time he pitted and then being stuck unable to regain first. Letâs be real. McLaren have no one to blame for this race but themselves, because they were the fastest all weekend and have been for a while, yet they didnât win. And Zak Brown should definitely eat his words that if you put someone other than Max in the fastest car, theyâd win, and no one is faster than Lando, well guess what. Lando had the fastest car, and has had it since Miami, yet won only one race, why is that Zak. Eat. Your. Words.
Lastly Red Bull. Are they making progress, yes for sure and that could be evident on Checo, who is regaining more confidence after 2 horrible races for him in a row. Starting P11, regaining and ending p8 (granted not the best result, but points finish nonetheless) and be wasnât 100% happy with the car. And saying heâll continue to fight, Iâm sure he will, and Checo will return to the podium very soon, especially because his strategy wasnât the best and the penalty cost him a bit, but heâs regaining that confidence and thatâs what we like. Then we have the one who literally destroyed the dreams of those around him. You canât tell me that that race wasnât all Max, because it was. The overtake on George that was as it was written in the book. To being able to communicate effectively with GP. To the strategy that had Max lead into lap 2. To then win the race in the second fastest car, snatching the win from the fastest. Yeah heâs unbelievable, but the team need to wake up, and provide him with upgrades that would enable them both (Max and Checo) to be more confident and less concerned with how their cars will perform (upgrades please red bull thank you)
Well, this is my race analysis for 1/3 of the upcoming triple header. And I want to end it on something I read about Max. Because HE is what makes the difference, not the car
It said something like there are great drivers in fats cars then there is the fastest driver in a great car. And I guess this sums up the Spanish GP top 2 in a nutshell
BRING ON AUSTRIA (May we listen to the Austrian and Dutch anthems tomorrow and enjoy it, and hopefully more on Sunday)
As I didnât get the chance to watch much of anything this past weekend, this analysis is golden. Thank you so much for sharing once again, I truly enjoy reading your post-race analyses. â€ïž
Honestly, people who still believe Max's success is only because of the car and not that man's raw, once-in-a-generation talent, they havenât been watching the races. Or they have, but they're simply too blinded by jealousy and/or their dislike towards Max to see him for the exceptional driver he is. And those people are simply not worth your time or energy.
Letâs fucking go Lestappen holy temple!
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100 awesome great quotes

100 awesome great quotes 100 awesome great quotes, a collection of great aphorisms by famous authors to stimulate your thoughts, ideas, reflections and ways of dealing with reality. Vulgus (Mundus o Populus) vult decipi, ergo decipiatur. (The world wants to be deceived, and so it is.) When you arise in the morning, think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive - to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love. Marcus Aurelius Life is not always a matter of holding good cards, but sometimes, playing a poor hand well. Jack London Why is it that people with the most narrow of minds seem to have the widest of mouths? Lewis Carroll The art of politics and war serve above all to provide concrete empirical evidence for the understanding of human imbecility. Carl William Brown Silence is an ocean. Speech is a river. When the ocean is searching for you, don't walk into the river. Listen to the ocean. Rumi Art is the incessant effort to compete with the beauty of flowers and never succeed. Marc Chagall Pain is a strange thing, you feel like you've reached the top and then you realize you've just started the climb. Pain has no limit, endurance does. Andros In loneliness, the lonely one eats himself; in a crowd, the many eat him. Now choose. Friedrich Nietzsche The longer we dwell on our misfortunes, the greater is their power to harm us. Voltaire Nothing is so necessary for a young man as the society of intelligent women. Leo Tolstoy If the only tool you have is a hammer, you tend to see every problem as a nail. Abraham Maslow Hating people is like burning down your own house to get rid of a rat. Harry Emerson Fosdick A sign of intelligence is an awareness of one's own ignorance. Niccolo Machiavelli

100 awesome great quotes The whole world is a small place and has always been a big mess, so be prepared. Carl William Brown The aim of argument, or of discussion, should not be victory, but progress. Joseph Joubert When the listener does not understand the speaker and the speaker does not know what he is saying: this is philosophy. Voltaire Don't get so tolerant that you tolerate intolerance. Bill Maher When we are no longer able to change a situation â we are challenged to change ourselves. Viktor E. Frankl The great and tragic problem about artificial intelligence is that it is strongly influenced by natural stupidity. Carl William Brown We are all islands shouting lies to each other across seas of misunderstanding. Rudyard Kipling The time you enjoy waisting is not wasted time. Bertrand Russell Most people when they come to you for advice, come to have their own opinions strengthened, not corrected. Josh Billings The enjoyment of power inevitably corrupts the judgment of reason, and perverts its liberty. Immanuel Kant A writer who says that there are no truths, or that all truth is âmerely relative,â is asking you not to believe him. So donât. Roger Scruton Reading is to the mind what exercise is to the body. Joseph Addison A philosopher who says: "There are no truths, but only interpretations" risks the retort: "Is that true, or only an interpretation?." Roger Scruton Where pain, risk, anxiety, memories, dissatisfaction and death roam, there my destiny was forged. Carl William Brown Donât be pushed around by the fears in your mind. Be led by the dreams in your heart. Roy. T. Bennett One day machines will be able to solve all problems, but none of them will ever be able to pose a problem. Albert Einstein

Awesome quotes and aphorisms I desire to go to Hell and not to Heaven. In the former I shall enjoy the company of popes, kings and princes, while in the latter are only beggars, monks and apostles. NiccolĂČ Machiavelli Great men are always of a nature originally melancholy. Aristotle Rest, nature, books, music, such is my idea of happiness. Leo Tolstoy Once a disease has entered the body, all parts which are healthy must fight it: not one alone, but all. Because a disease might mean their common death. Nature knows this; and Nature attacks the disease with whatever help she can muster. Philippus A. Paracelsus Without literature, life is hell. Charles Bukowski Seriousness is an accident of time. It consists of putting too high a value on time. In eternity there is no time. Eternity is a moment, just long enough for a joke. Hermann Hesse The raging fire which urged us on was scorching us; it would have burned us had we tried to restrain it. Giacomo Casanova âClassicâ: A book which people praise and don't read. Mark Twain The thing about smart people is they sound like crazy people to stupid people. Albert Einstein I hate victims who respect their executioners. Jean-Paul Sartre All passions are good when one masters them; all are bad when one is a slave to them. Jean-Jacques Rousseau Tolerance become a crime when applied to evil. Thomas Mann To win any battle, you must fight as if you are already dead. Miyamoto Musashi It's not true that I had nothing on. I had the radio on. Marilyn Monroe The content of your character is your choice. Day by day, what you choose, what you think and what you do is who you become. Heraclitus The first method for estimating the intelligence of a ruler is to look at the men he has around him. NiccolĂČ Machiavelli The paradox is a telescope for the stars and a microscope for the minimal bodies. LĂšon Bloy There must be someone who keeps pushing the boundaries of the ridiculous. Ennio Flaiano Life is not worth living unless it is lived for someone else. Albert Einstein Before the internet we thought that stupidity was due to a lack of information. Today we know it wasn't for that. Carl William Brown

Great awesome quotes and aphorisms Summer afternoon - summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language. Henry James The best doctors in the world are Doctor Diet, Doctor Quiet, and Doctor Merryman. Jonathan Swift It is a hard thing to leave any deeply routined life, even if you hate it. John Steinbeck He who considers disease results to be the disease itself, and expects to do away with these as diseases, is insane. It is an insanity in medicine, an insanity that has grown out of the milder forms of mental disorder in science, crazy whims. James Tyler Kent I know a cure for everything. Salt water in one form or another, sweat, tears or the salt sea. Karen Blixen I am a human being, I think that nothing is alien to me. (Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto.) Terenzio One-quarter of what you eat keeps you alive. The other three-quarters keeps your doctors alive. Ancient Egyptian proverb POLITICS is the ONLY profession where you can LIE, CHEAT, and STEAL, and still be respected. Mark Twain Technological progress is like an axe in the hands of a pathological criminal. Albert Einstein The desire to be loved is the last illusion. Give it up and you will be free. Margaret Atwood Born this way, in a place where the masses turn idiots into successful heroes. Charles Bukowski A serious and good philosophical work could be written consisting entirely of jokes. Ludwig Wittgenstein Just as the largest library, badly arranged, is not so useful as a very moderate one that is well arranged, so the greatest amount of knowledge, if not elaborated by our own thoughts, is worth much less than a far smaller volume that has been abundantly and repeatedly thought over. Arthur Schopenhauer The reward of sin is death? Thatâs hard. Si peccasse negamus, fallimur, et nulla est in nobis veritas. If we say that we have no sin, We deceive ourselves, and thereâs no truth in us. Christopher Marlowe All my life to find the center, and in the end the circumference explodes. Carl Willliam Brown Teach someone to be a writer and he will be poor for the rest of his life. Anonymous The price of apathy towards public affairs is to be ruled by evil men. Plato There's no coming to conciousness without pain. Carl Jung Optimism is the madness of insisting that all is well when we are miserable. Voltaire My Crown is in my heart, not on my head: Not deck'd with Diamonds, and Indian stones: Nor to be seen: my Crown is call'd Content, A Crown it is, that seldom Kings enjoy. William Shakespeare

100 awesome aphorisms Men are born ignorant, not stupid; they are made stupid by education. Bertrand Russell The intelligent man solves problems. The wise man avoids them. The stupid man creates them. And if the world is full of problems, there must be a reason. Albert Einstein The tyrant dies and his rule is over, the martyr dies and his rule begins. Soren Kierkegaard If you see everything gray in front of you, move the elephant. Indian proverb A wise man never knows all. Only fools know everything. African proverb I am a foe to tyrants, and my country's friend. William Shakespeare Commitment is an act, not a word. Jean-Paul Sartre I have great faith in fools, self-confidence, my friends will call it. Edgar Allan Poe Many who are self-taught far excel the doctors, masters, and bachelors of the most renowned universities. Ludwig von Mises Politics is the entertainment division of the military industrial complex. Frank Zappa Do not be so open-minded that your brain falls out. G.K. Chesterton There is absolutely no common sense, it is common non-sense. Henry David Thoreau He who has a why to live can bear almost any how. Friedrich Nietzsche If they are wise, do not quarrel with them; if they are fools, ignore them. Epictetus Only during hard times do people come to understand how difficult it is to be master of their feelings and thoughts. Anton Chekhov The ability to sit and do nothing when there is no trade is a skill. Golden rule So in everything: power lies with those who control finance, not with those who know the matter upon which the money is to be spent. Bertrand Russell When it is a question of money, everybody is of the same religion. Voltaire Focus on effort, not results. Marcus Aurelius Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind. William Shakespeare

100 great aphorisms and awesome quotes The smart way to keep people passive and obedient is to strictly limit the spectrum of acceptable opinion, but allow very lively debate within that spectrum. Noam Chomsky There is a kind of sadness that comes from knowing too much, from seeing the world as it truly is. Virginia Woolf Eros seizes and shakes my very soul like the wind on the mountain shaking ancient oaks. Sappho I have turned my life upside down. Before I was sad and depressed; now I am depressed and sad. David Frost Love is the answer, but while you are waiting for the answer, sex raises some pretty good questions. Woody Allen The world has suffered more from the ravages of ill-advised marriages than from virginity. Ambrose Bierce Agree or Disagree? It is not the voice that commands the story: it is the ear. Italo Calvino The history of a soldier's wound beguiles the pain of it. Laurence Sterne Every man desires to live long, but no man wishes to be old. Jonathan Swift In politics, virtues should be flaunted, never put to the test. Roberto Gervaso What does not deserve the name of generosity is nothing more than one of the many forms of ostentation and pomp. Arturo Graf Life is a pill that no one can swallow unless it is golden. Samuel Johnson Donât miss these other similar posts: Wise quotes from the Ancients 100 golden quotes and aphorisms 100 wonderful quotes and aphorisms 100 admirable quotes and aphorisms 100 magnificent quotes and aphorisms 100 brilliant quotes and aphorisms 100 famous quotes and aphorisms 100 memorable quotes and aphorisms 100 excellent quotes and aphorisms 100 top great quotes and aphorisms 100 superlative quotes and aphorisms 100 super worthy quotes and aphorisms 100 great quotes on love Great and famous philosophy quotes Quotes by authors Quotes by arguments Thoughts and reflections Essays with quotes Read the full article
#100awesomeaphorisms#100awesomequotes#awesomeaphorisms#awesomegreataphorisms#awesomegreatquotes#awesomequotes#inspirationalquotes#motivationalquotes
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Compiled a bunch of reading lists/recommendations in my notes
Zen in the Art of Archery by Eugen Herrigel
A Dollâs House by Henrik Ibsen
The Garden Party by Katherine Mansfield
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead by Tom Stoppard
And Strange at Ecbatan the Trees by Michael Bishop
In Between the Sheets by Ian McEwan
Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino
Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business by Neil Postman
Camp Concentration by Thomas Disch
Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller
The Drowned World by J.G. Ballard
Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson
Engines of Logic: Mathematicians and the Origin of the Computer by Martin Davis
Go Tell It on the Mountain by James Baldwin
Notes of a Native Son by James Baldwin
Polemics by Alain Badiou
Smalltalk Best Practice Patterns by Kent Beck
Speedboat by Renata Adler
The Dynamics of Creation by Gregory Bateson
The Theoretical Minimum: What You Need to Know to Start Doing Physics by Leonard Susskind
A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess
Hard to Be a God by the Strugatsky Brothers
The Invincible by StanisĆaw Lem
At Swim-Two-Birds by Flann Oâbrien
Appointment in Samarra by John OâHara
Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America by Barbara Ehrenreich
Piranesi by Susanna Clarke
Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell
Far Away and Long Ago by W.H. Hudson
The Life of Jesus by Ernest Renan
The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett
The Stone Leopard by Colin Forbes
The Dream Master by Roger Zelazny
The Exile Waiting by Vonda McIntyre
Valis by Philip K. Dick
Nova by Samuel Delany
The Day of the Triffids by John Wyndham
The Fifth Head of Cerberus by Gene Wolfe
Martian Time Slip by Philip K. Dick
Ubik by Philip K. Dick
Lancelot by Walker Percy
Rabbit, Run by John Updike
Pulphead: Essays by John Jeremiah Sullivan
Laughter in the Dark by Vladimir Nabokov
A Beautiful Question: Finding Nature's Deep Design by Frank Wilczek
A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway
Bicycling Science (MIT Press) by David Gordon Wilson
Codex Seraphinianus by Luigi Serafini
Epic Measures: One Doctor. Seven Billion Patients by Jeremy R. Smith
How to Be Alone: Essays by Jonathan FrazenÂ
On Beauty by Umberto Eco
On Ugliness by Umberto Eco
Snow Falling on Cedars by David Guterson
South Wind by Norman Douglas
The Dispossessed by Ursula K. Le Guin
The Drunkard's Walk: How Randomness Rules Our Lives by Leonard Mlodinow
The Infinite Resource: The Power of Ideas on a Finite Planet by Rainer Zitelmann
The Knowledge: How to Rebuild Civilization in the Aftermath of a Cataclysm by Lewis Dartnell
The Soul of A New Machine by Tracy Kidder
The Upside of Stress: Why Stress Is Good for You, and How to Get Good at It by Kelly McGonigal
The World Without Us by Alan Weisman
This Will Make You Smarter by John Brockman (Editor)
Uncontrolled: The Surprising Payoff of Trial-and-Error for Business, Politics, and Society by Jim Manzi
Visual Explanations: Images and Quantities, Evidence and Narrative by Edward Tufte
Wonderland by Joyce Carol Oates
Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë
Lady Chatterley's Lover by D.H. Lawrence
On the Road by Jack Kerouac
Handmaidâs Tale by Margaret Atwood
Childhood; Boyhood; Youth by Leo Tolstoy
Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead
The World Without Us by Alan Weisman
Life of Pi by Yann Martel
The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner
Run Rabbit by John Updike
House of Seven Gables by Nathaniel Hawthorne
Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy
The Jungle by Upton Sinclair
Life of Pi by Yann Martel
Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy by John Le Carré
Master and Commander by Patrick OâBrien
The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt
A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole
The Coalwood Way by Homer Hickam
Hail and Farewell by George Moore
The American by Henry James
Victory by Joseph Conrad
Collected Poems by Robert Lowell
Collected Poems by W.H. Auden
Guerrillas by V.S. Naipaul
Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert
Sanctuary by William Faulkner
The Berlin Stories by Christopher Isherwood
The Collected Poems by Wallace Stevens
The Executioner's Song by Norman Mailer
The Good Soldier by Ford Madox Ford
The Short Stories of Guy de Maupassant by Guy de Maupassant
Watership Down by Richard Adams
The Ideological Origins of the American Revolution by Bernard Bailyn
Victory by Joseph Conrad
Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck
Life of Pi by Yann Martel
Cat's Eye by Margaret Atwood
The Enormous Room by E.E. Cummings
The Open Boat by Stephen Crane
The Best American Humorous Short Stories by Alexander Jessup
The Old Wivesâ Tale by Arnold Bennett
The Red and the Black by Stendhal
The Revolt of the Angels by Anatole France
The Overstory by Richard Powers
Her Smoke Rose Up Forever by James Tiptree Jr.
Hyperion by Dan Simmons
Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver
Possession by A.S. Byatt
The Glass Bead Game by Hermann Hesse
De Facto Inclusions of Italo Calvino: The Baron in the Trees; The Nonexistent Knight; The Cloven Viscount by Italo Calvino
The Blue Hotel by Stephen Crane
Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser
Buddenbrooks by Thomas Mann
Of Human Bondage by Somerset Maugham
The Oxford Book of English Verse
Foucault's Pendulum by Umberto Eco
Battle Royale by Koushun Takami
The Oath by John Lescroart
Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood
Midnightâs Children by Salman Rushdie
The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen
A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara
The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Swannâs Way by Marcel Proust
The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy
John Keats and Percy Bysshe Shelley: Complete Poetical Works
Within a Budding Grove by Marcel Proust
Rainbow Six by Tom Clancy
The Power Broker: Robert Moses and the Fall of New York by Robert Caro
Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell by Susanna Clarke
Way of Kings by Brandon Sanderson
War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
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WTDW-Tober Day 3: Founders
Before we start, I want to give the heads up that part of this will be a bullet point fic. Some parts are written out, and others are summaries of or just the gist of what would happen. I am already running behind on these, so this seemed like the best way to catch up.
(Also, also: Reminder that tomorrow is Loud Noise Wednesday October 4. Americans, there will be a nationwide alarm test, at least that's what I've heard. Here is an article with more info.)
-Sara is in some elective on storytelling or performing. The class is doing presentations where they tell a story that has specific elements their teacher put on the rubric. (This is based on a class I had in junior high but that was a really long time ago so all I remember is this assignment and us watching the show Get Smart)
"And that is the story of how I earned this shiny rock at summer camp," The brunette took a bow. The class applauded, then began scratching at the peer review cards they were handed for the assignment.Â
"Right. Excellent work, Lewis. Though be sure to move around more. You are telling a story with your movements as well as your words."
Sara frowned at that. The boy was doing a lot of gesticulating, definitely more than Marco before him and Nancy before him. In fact, most of the students stood stiffly and forgot how to move their bodies.
"Do my notes of stage directions in the script I wrote mean Nothing, Mr. Edricson?" the boy grumbled under his breath as he passed Sara on his way to his seat.Â
Sara agreed. Mr Edricson was kind of a tool. Most of the class was either watching clips from tv shows or having the students do the work for him. With a click of her tongue, Sara began the most thorough review card she had ever written in the whole trimester. Under the section for special compliments, she wrote, âI like how he had a gesture for each action in his story. He acted out what he was doing as well as using his narration for emphasis. This guy is the best performer in class, let alone public speaker. And that includes the teacher. Do better, Charles.
Later, when they got their grades back, she saw the boy sigh in defeat, then flip through the peer review pages. Eventually he let out a snort of laughter, which he attempted to disguise with a cough. He looked around the class and met eyes with Sara. âCharles Edricson is a tool,â She tried to mouth. The boy titled his head in confusion. Right. Her grade said she needed to work on annunciation. Charles could be right about this one thing.
âThank you,â the boy mouthed. Sara grinned at him and gave him a thumbs up.
The boy hung back after class and introduced himself as Lewis Bright. Sara gave her own name in return, surprised that anyone would want to talk to her. She was even further baffled when he asked where she usually sat at lunch. That afternoon, they exchanged snacks and ideas. Through the story they weaved together between bites of carrots, a long-lasting friendship was forged.
-They are paired with Oliver for a physics project. Sara is setting up a Rube Goldberg machine while Lewis draws a diagram of it. They are used to doing most of the work on the project and with how scarce Oliver is, they figure this is no different. Then they see him at lunch fleshing out their powerpoint presentation.Â
-He asks to see Lewisâs drawings
-Oliver then scans the drawings and they are amazed like âYou know how to do that?â
-He is able to get them into the mechanical engineering class. Is that a class? Whatever class Eric teaches alongside the class he teaches them in their last year. He gets a cameo in the fic and the trio are able to spend a lunch period setting up the Rube Goldberg machine and recording it.
-Eric makes a comment about the twins being welcome to stay with him and Carly after school so he can go straight to his job.
-At this point, Oliver explains a bit of his home life and how he has a job (or jobs) to support himself and his siblings and that is why he has been so scarce.
-They get a good grade on the project and they get slushies or ice cream to celebrate. While there, they run into some old bullies of Saraâs. One calls her the Happy-Hollow-Pockets Arsonist, another possibly calls her Flare-a Covet-Our-Money-Man. I was not happy with how this scene turned out, but they verbally bully Sara while Lewis is getting their ice cream.
The bullies maybe try to tell Oliver about Saraâs past. Also at some point in this conversation, it is established that Oliver has a reputation about being a soft spoken sweetheart. I only bring this up for this next part.
"I have heard enough. All I can gather from this interaction is that you two are pathetic enough to make yourselves feel better by dragging others down with misdeeds from their past. I don't know what she did to gain your ire and I don't care what it is.Â
"Do you know what I do think is interesting? How much of our lives is online. We are so well-documented now-a-days that it is difficult to bury your own pasts.Â
"Did you know that schools can search through your electronic footprint? That if they find something they don't like, that can influence their decision to admit you or not?"
Oliver took a step closer
"Did you know how poorly defended the highschool's records are? It would be so easy to change someone's grades, remove their ability to participate in extracurriculars, to make you look like a terrible choice for the college you are aiming for. Your behavior, your attendance? They are so poorly protected."
âAre you threatening us?â
âAm I? Itâs hard to say. Besides,â Oliver leaned in close and whispered into their ears, âN OÂ O N EÂ W O U L DÂ E V E RÂ B E L I E V EÂ Y O U .â
Oliver walked backward to be back at Saraâs side. âI would be careful about tarnishing my friendâs reputation. Think about how it would feel if someone ruined yours.â With that, Oliver smiled and dragged a shellshocked Sara into the restaurant where Lewis was waiting.
âWhatâs got you in such a good mood, Darling?â Lewis asked.
âI ran into some old classmates and I am just really happy to have you two as my friends instead. If, if you guys want to call me your friend, of course! You donât have to! I didnât mean to assume!â
A hand landed on his shoulder and Oliver turned to see Sara giving him a watery smile, âYou have no idea how much your friendship would mean to me.â
â-
I think that is a good stopping point, but there were other scenes I had wanted to write:
-Them having a sleepover and painting each otherâs nails. Lewis has a collection of holographic nail polishes. There is a dark plumb one that makes him powerful.
-Them talking about project ideas for the competition. They chose to make a miniature moving figurine of a character they make up for the contest. It is Starlight. They include ideas for other characters in the report.
-Them waiting for the results and getting an envelope with tickets to a fair inside. They buy ice cream to celebrate. Sara treats them and the others assure that she doesnât owe them anything.Â
-Sara having imposter syndrome because Star Light is mostly Lewisâs idea and Oliver did the programing and 3d printing.
-They point out that the actual physics and movement logistics of the project was all Sara.
-At the awards ceremony, the director of this competition is looking at Sara in a way that makes her shiver, but she shakes it off. (This is my hint to a conspiracy that Litho possessed someone to make this competition happen and he wanted the trio, especially Sara, to win from the start.)
-The trio arriving at the space that will become Dreamworld. They are so excited.
-Oliver recruits Pen and Eric to help him set up the speakers throughout the facility. He then gets to pick the music to test the speakers. He plays some songs that he just likes, with some meme songs and especially Siivagunner rips peppered in. He watches as everyone catches on. Lewis is the first of his best friends to notice. The Flintstones jingle gives it away. He remembers Wiatt infodumping about this particular game called 7 Grand Dad and how the channel will sneak the Flintstones theme into their songs as one of their more recurring jokes. Sara is the last to notice. She has been getting phone calls more frequently ever since the reward ceremony. This particular one must have taken a long time and captured all her attention. Once she does notice, she has this look on her face that is both fond and exasperated and cry of, âOliverrrrr,â that devolves into giggles is music to his ears.
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