#Spiral Conveyor Belt

[alex-wire-mesh]

Balanced Mesh Belt

Balanced Mesh Belt is also widely known as balanced wire belt. This wire mesh belt could revolutionize your operations.

1: Unique Features (1) Singular design for optimal efficiency. (2) Exceptional durability in diverse industrial applications. (3) Precision engineering for seamless performance. (4) Singular focus on enhancing production processes. (5) Unmatched flexibility for various material handling needs. (6) Maximum strength with a singular weave pattern. (7) Seamless integration with automated systems. (8) Singular tracking system for precision movement. (9) High-temperature resistance for extreme conditions. (10) Singular belt surface for reduced friction. (11) Elevated corrosion resistance for extended lifespan. (12) Singular material choices for specific industry demands. (13) Enhanced safety features with a singular design. (14) Minimal maintenance requirements for cost efficiency. (15) Singular adaptability to different conveyor configurations.

2: Applications (1) Singular solutions for food processing industries. (2) Elevate your packaging efficiency with the belt. (3) Singular role in the automotive manufacturing process. (4) Enhance the textile industry with the technology of this belt. (5) Singular applications in pharmaceutical production. (6) Optimize your metalworking operations with the belt. (7) Singular contributions to the electronics manufacturing sector. (8) Improve wood processing efficiency with the belt. (9) Singular role in the chemical and petrochemical industries. (10) Elevate the performance of glass manufacturing processes. (11) Singular applications in the renewable energy sector. (12) Enhance your mining operations with Balanced Mesh Belt. (13) Singular contributions to the aerospace industry. (14) Optimize agriculture processes with its technology. (15) Singular applications in logistics and distribution centers.

3: Advantages (1) Singularly boost production output and efficiency. (2) Singularly reduce downtime with reliable performance. (3) Enhance product quality with precise material handling. (4) Singularly improve workplace safety standards. (5) Optimize resource utilization with the wire belt. (6) Singularly adapt to changing production requirements. (7) Reduce operational costs with minimal maintenance needs. (8) Singularly withstand harsh environmental conditions. (9) Improve overall equipment lifespan with durable design. (10) Singularly comply with industry regulations and standards. (11) Boost employee morale with a reliable conveyor system. (12) Singularly streamline production processes. (13) Ensure consistent product flow with the belt. (14) Singularly reduce waste in manufacturing processes. (15) Enhance corporate sustainability with efficient material handling.

4: Future Outlook (1) Singularly shaping the future of conveyor technology. (2) Pioneering advancements in material handling systems. (3) Singularly contributing to Industry 4.0 evolution. (4) Balancing innovation and sustainability for future growth. (5) Singularly addressing emerging challenges in conveyor systems. (6) Anticipating future industry demands with the conveyor belt. (7) Singularly driving efficiency in the era of smart manufacturing. (8) Contributing to a more sustainable and connected industrial landscape. (9) Singularly supporting global initiatives for efficient production. (10) Balancing technology and environmental responsibility for a brighter future. (11) Singularly adapting to the evolving needs of diverse industries. (12) Paving the way for smarter, greener, and more efficient manufacturing. (13) Singularly embracing the challenges of the Fourth Industrial Revolution. (14) Anticipating and meeting the needs of future material handling demands. (15) Balancing progress and responsibility for a sustainable industrial future.

The product Balanced Mesh Belt appeared first on Alex Wire Mesh.

[lorelune]

(@habibisagi made a post about lovesick oliver and now I'M sick. enjoy some lovesick jealously🩷 minors dni)

you and oliver and good (banger) sex immediately but it's not like… the best he's ever had. but he likes you quite a bit and you're sweet but not too clingy. he even thinks about asking you to be his girlfriend after a few hookups but decides against it.

i think it's like. a slow burn for him. like he's still seeing other people and the sex with them is good but like… not quite as good. because it's not you, actually, and he's never had that before which is weird for him.

after one of your hookups, you get coffee together (something you've never done before) and he thinks the little scrunch between your brows while you decide on a drink is … cute. you sit together in a toasty booth and banter like a couple and it's like. really good. he's done this before with other partners but it's not quite the same.

it escalates from there. he brings you a treat when he goes to your place to hookup, instead of his. your cat warms up to him super quickly, and he's kinda charmed by it. you both get a bit cuddlier after sex and it's not weird, it just feels natural.

it all comes to a head as you're planning your next tryst. oliver is at the airport, waiting for a checked bag having just returned home.

"tonight?" you sound grainy from the phone speaker. "i can't, sorry."

"busy?"

"something like that."

"oh?" his tone curls and he snatches his bag from the conveyor belt, his phone tucked between his ear and shoulder. "what do you have on the docket?"

you're quiet for a moment. "i've got a date."

it feels like a cold shock to his chest. oliver nearly drops his phone.

"a date, huh?"

"yeah." you sound moderately unbothered on the phone. a tinge sheepish, maybe, but maybe oliver's imagining that through the icy hot feeling dripping down his body.

"with who?" his tone sounds normal enough. he's probably saving face.

"some guy that my friend knows. he's seems nice, at least through text."

"that's nice. what are you two getting up to?

"getting coffee, at that cafe we tried in the winter. low stress, you know?"

oliver feels his hands tightening into fists. that's your spot--

"sounds nice. what's the lucky guy's name?'

you're quiet for a moment, then laugh. "why do you want to know, oliver? you gonna track the guy down to give him a background check?"

"i wasn't planning on it, but that's not a bad idea." he laughs, leaning against one of the pillars near the luggage carousel. the crowd blurs together. "just curious. i gotta see how i'm loaning you out to."

you are silent on the other side of the line.

"'loaning me out?'"

"yeah, you know? it's best to make sure you're staying safe."

"i'm not yours, oliver, let alone to ‘loan out’."

"aren't you?"

you curse, then laugh. "oh my god, don't tell me, you're jealous?"

oliver doesn't have a reply. because you're right. he is jealous. crazy jealous and he can feel sweat dripping down his neck from the adrenaline rush that has hit me.

(he's never given a shit about losing a partner before. they come and go. he's never cared about womanizing or whoring around because sex is sex and sex is fun and pleasurable for all parties involved. yet the idea of you doing a fraction of what he has, notoriously, done is sending him spiraling.)

(actually, when was the last time he saw someone... other than you? some girls flirted with him at the bar last night, but he went home alone. he texted you before bed and spent his last wakeful moments ogling a photo you sent. it was a photo of your cat playing with a new toy. incidentally, you took it kneeling in front of your floor length mirror (that he has not fucked you in front of enough, actually). the photo captured you in your very cute pajamas.)

(normally, you wear satin bits to bed that get discarded once you hit the sheets, anyways. oliver prefers you naked, and you're far too fucked out to care by the time he's done with you to want anything other than skin-to-skin contact with him. he's still used to the getups though. he still thinks they're cute.)

(this photo, however? you're in house clothes. some stupidly baggy pants that drag on the floor and an oversized tee shirt that you swim it, going down to your mid thighs. it's worn, any text having faded from the fabric. the sock you're wearing are fuzzy and white with a heart pattern on them. your face is mostly obscured in the photo, but he can tell you're grinning, big and dopey.)

(it makes him want you in a way that is insane. consuming.)

(oliver spent the last bits of his evening not fucking any number of beautiful women that approached him, but flipping between his texts with you to banter, and that fucking photo, which he has both saved onto his phone, his cloud, and committed to the sensory memories stored in the hindbrain.)

(so. you know? maybe he is a bit--)

"jealous?" he voice wobbles, it hardly sounds like him. "what if i am?"

"... i'd think you're fucking with me."

"and if i'm not?"

you're silent on the line. for a moment, oliver thinks you hung up on him.

"i'm not sure if i believe you." your words wobble. "or, even if you are jealous, why you would care that much? it's just some date with a stranger?"

"it's not about him," oliver says without thinking. "it's about you."

"oh."

oliver runs a hand over his face.

"cancel your date." he starts walking toward the exit. "come over tonight. i'll take you out."

"sure you will."

"i mean it."

"you don't need to be coy," you laugh, a shakey thing, fragile in a way oliver hasn't heard from you. "just say you want to fuck me over your dining table and let it be. don't lie."

something in him cracks. "i'm not lying."

"oliver--"

"i'm not lying."

there's a poigant stretch of silence, and then you gulp.

"fine." your voice wobbles, with elation or dread, he can't tell. "you can take me out. if you're fucking with me, or like, pretending to give more of a shit just because you don't want me to fuck other people, i will walk out the door and never come back, you understand?"

the thought of you doing that, leaving him high and dry and cold, makes that crystallin, frigid anxiety that's been living in his chest travel up to behind his eyes.

"absolutely." oliver says, even, with a conviction that's almost startling. "you're mine, you know? i gotta treat you well."

"sure. prove it."

"i'd be happy to."

it's elation. it's excitement. there's fear, sure, because oliver has never treated a partner 'right' in his life but he is lovesick enough to try.

[bethanythebogwitch]

Wet Beast Wednesday: abalone

This is a Wet Beast Wednesday post, but it would also be applicable for Mollusk Monday and maybe even Flat Fuck Friday. Today I'll be introducing you to the abalone. The squat snails have some strange features that set them apart from their fellows in the shell squad. Unfortunately, over harvesting of abalone for their meat and shells have put many abalone species in danger.

(Image: an abalone attached to a rock. It is a snail with a large, broad, and flat brown shell. A muscular foot attaches the animal to the rock. Around the body is a membrane covered in tentacles that reach out around the body. End ID)

Abalone are marine snails of the genus Haliotis (not to be confused with halitosis) that can range in shell diameter from 20 mm (0.8 in) to 300 mm (12 in). The number of species is a matter of some debate. There's a lot of variation in morphology within species which led to many species being incorrectly classified as multiple species. The most accepted number appears to be 56 species and 18 subspecies. Abalone shells are highly flattened and the spiral can be hard to see, making them look like large limpets. They have no operculum and cannot withdraw into their shells like other snails can. Instead, when threatened they suction as hard as possible to an object. The shells have holes in them on one side which are used for respiration, waste disposal, and release of gametes. As abalone grow, the number of holes will change with some being filled in and new ones forming. The interior of the shell is covered in nacre. This substance, also called mother-of-pearl is valuable for its polished, iridescent appearance. Abalone use the nacre to make claw-shaped pearls. The shell is composed of microscopic bricks of calcium carbonate glued together by a protein structure. When pressure is applied to the structure, the bricks slide against each other and the protein glue stretches. This helps absorb the energy of blows and makes the shells very resistant to cracking. The shell structure of abalone has been studied to make sturdier body armor and ceramics.

(Image: an empty and polished abalone shell, seen from below. The shell is lined with shiny and iridescent nacre. The nacre color varies with species, but in this case is blue-green. A line of holes are on one side of the shell. End ID)

The majority of the shell's interior is filled with the muscular foot, which the abalone uses for locomotion. The foot is attached to the shell in the center. Around the edge of the foot is a structure called the epipodium. This is a frilled membrane lined with sensory tentacles. When an abalone is relaxed, it will extend the tentacles to examine its surrounding. When threatened, the tentacles retract for safety. Along the edge of the shell is the mantle, which produced the material for the shell. Abalone will grow larger throughout their lives, with the mantle continuously making new shell. At the front is the head, which has sensory tentacles and a mouth that contains a pair of oral tentacles use for finding food and the radula. The radula is a tongue-like structure lines with sharp teeth. The teeth scrape algae off of rocks and into the mouth. The teeth are arranged in rows that move forward like a conveyor belt, allowing worn out teeth to fall out and be replaced by fresh ones. The head is near the newest-formed hole and the anus is next to the rearmost hole.

(Image: an abalone seen from below, with the foor removed and anatomy labeled. The organs circle around a central muscle that the foot attaches to. A small head is in the front while the epipodium rings the body. Source. End ID)

(Image: an abalone's radula, removed and next to a pencil for scale. It is a long, thin structure lined with rows of tiny teeth. The front end is stained brown with algae. End ID)

Abalone live on coasts worldwide, with the exception of the North American Atlantic coast, South American Pacific Coast, and the poles. Most species live in cold water, but tropical species are known. They spend their times feeding on algae. Abalone shells are usually covered with life, including algae and sessile animals like tunicates, sponges, and tube worms. The hitchhikers combined with the upper shell's dull appearances serves as effective camouflage. During mating season, males and females release gametes into the water. The number of eggs a female can produce increases with size and can be up to 11 million per season. The larvae start out in a swimming form before metamorphosing into non-swimming juveniles called spat. Abalone reach sexual maturity young and at a small size.

(Iamge: dozens of abalone spat in a tank. They are miniature versions of the adults, but have nacre on the outside of the shell as well, giving them a shiny turquoise color. End ID)

Abalone have been hunted by huamns for millennia, with the oldest evidence of use being a 100,000 year old "workshop" found in Blombos Cave, South Africa, where abalone shells were used as storage for ochre mixtures. Throughout their native ranges, abalone have been harvested for their meat, nacre, and pearls. The shells are often used for jewelry, as decorative inlay, and, in some cultures, as currency. The foot is edible and considered a delicacy in some cultures and a staple in others. The value of abalone has led to worldwide overfishing, resulting in many species being endangered. Captive farming has become a major industry in many places to meet the abalone demands. Farming began in China and Japan in the 1950s and 60s and the majority of abalone farms are still in east Asia. Because of overfishing, the majority of the world's abalone supply now comes from farms. Sport fishing is legal in many parts of the world, with 25% of the wild harvest coming from Tasmania. Many places require permits and have catch limits, but poaching remains a major industry. Collection of abalone is usually done with a blunt scoop called an abalone iron that can pop the animal off of rocks. It has to be blunt because abalone blood does not clot and any cut will lead to the animal bleeding to death. Overharvesting and increasing ocean acidification are the largest threats to abalone. Places where abalone are reintroduced to the wild have seen increased biodiversity and environmental health.

(Image: a carving made by the Haida people of British Columbia, Canada. It reselbles a face with a tall hat or head with a small body carved on it. Abalone shells are used for inlay,, cut into rectangles with the nacre facing out. End ID)

[makimacult]

legit so satisfying to see all the theories about the chainsaw devil's true power get a subtle nod here

wow. the way makima's presence still lingers on, especially through barem. she sought to split denji and pochita apart... barem wants to truly awaken chainsaw man's powers in denji. once again, projecting the Idea of chainsaw man onto denji, and inflicting force on him to make him their idealised version of the chainsaw man

i vaguely feel like nayuta's severed head at the end of the chapter parallels how makima kills power. it's a shock value act of violence used to make denji spiral into despair. i don't think nayuta actually died from this tho...? or maybe i'm just coping, because i really enjoy her dynamic with denji and feel like we haven't scratched the surface of her potential yet

another interesting piece of imagery is barem force-feeding denji, while the famine devil herself sits at the conveyor belt table with them. denji's dream also included <eating delicious food> once upon a time. now he is provided with that, but it's all hollow sustenance.

[envysparkler]

Dick had fucked up.  Dick had fucked up big time.

“Robin?” Dick tried, creeping through the gloom of the abandoned warehouse.  Machinery loomed out of the darkness like dusty jumpscares and there was a chilling, crawling feeling up the back of his neck.  “Robin, are you there?”

No sound.  Not even a whisper.  Demons were always very good at blending into the shadows.

“Robin, come back,” Dick called out into the darkness.

The crippling sensation of abandonment was his only answer.

Really, this whole thing was Bruce’s fault.  Not only had he replaced Dick, he’d replaced him with a demon.  A baby incubus that Dick was supposed to call brother.  Dick was justifiably wary of humanity’s greatest predators, never mind that his little brother had chubby little cheeks and an adorable scowl and a pout that Dick had to resist cooing at.  He was dangerous.

And doubly so under the influence of mind tampering chemicals.

Incubi under fear toxin could induce a heart attack with a touch, overloading people’s minds with fear until they died.  Dick had never met an incubus under the use of cuddle pollen, since Ivy mainly reserved that for the Bats, but he shuddered to think of what an emotion-sensitive demon would do when faced with the draining hunger for succor.

Luckily, Dick had met enough villains with mental manipulation to develop strong mental shields.  They’d snapped into place the moment he’d felt Robin’s clumsy grab for his mind, protecting him from mental intrusion.  He could’ve gotten Robin back to the Batcave and in a containment cell with no one—especially Bruce—the wiser.

Instead, Robin had bolted the moment Dick had cut him free of Ivy’s vines and Dick had no idea how to find him.  It was becoming increasingly likely that he’d have to call Bruce from his shift on the Watchtower and deal with the Disappointed Look that still made Dick cringe.

He could already hear Bruce now.  I asked you to watch over Gotham for one night, but I see that was beyond your capabilities.  The sneer was clearly visible in Dick’s mind.  I should’ve never called you back—you’re useless, pathetic, weak—

Dick froze.  “Robin?” he called out, barely a whisper.  The dread and terror hanging over his head weren’t his own.  The fear of being kicked out wasn’t his.  “Robin, are you there?”

The feeling of dread intensified.  Lurking behind it was hurt, a miasma that seemed to grow with every breath.  Pain and fear and abandonment and loneliness, all of it battling together in a spiral that tightened around Dick’s chest and sunk deep.

“Robin?” Dick called out again.  It was an old-fashioned game of hot-and-cold.  The thicker the emotions were, the closer he was getting.  Dick kept the mental block and slipped further into the warehouse.

The darkness seemed especially concentrated in the shadows behind an old conveyor belt.  Dick rounded the edge and headed for the corners, feeling the ache as the emotions pressed against his barrier.

He caught sight of the cape as the emotions solidified into specifics.

hates me hates me can’t stand the sight of me no one can they all hate me

I don’t want to be a demon I don’t want to be alone I just want to be loved why is it so hard why why

please please please please please please please it hurts please it hurts make it stop please please it hurts make it stop I can’t breathe please please please

I’m so hungry

it’s so cold

please help help please it hurts please please please please

“Oh, kid,” Dick breathed, crouching as he crept closer.  Robin was huddled into a tiny ball, cape tucked around him, shuddering violently.  “It’s okay.  It’s going to be okay.  C’mere.”

Robin didn’t move, but he didn’t jerk away at Dick’s careful touch at his shoulder, and Dick moved to envelop him in a hug.  He used slow, cautious movements and only relaxed when the kid was tucked up in his lap.

Robin was still rigid, not bending the slightest amount, breaths harsh and shaky.  Before Dick could figure out a more comfortable position for them both, something poked at his mental barrier.

Dick mentally reared back, reinforcing the block.  But it wasn’t an attack, it was…questing?  It slunk forward again, a wary little thread reaching out.  For an instant, Dick felt hurt please help big brother please?

Then the thread curled away, sagging at a lack of response, and the feeling of abandonment surged.

It was a stupid idea.  Dick was just compounding the bad decisions that had led them to this point.  He could already imagine Bruce’s lecture—did you seriously allow a demon access to your mind because you felt sorry for it—but he’d already made the decision.

Dick dropped the mental barrier.

It felt like cracking open a door he was trying to hold shut, warring with his own instincts as he deliberately lowered his guard.  The thread came back and, upon finding an open path, slithered inside.  Dick resisted the urge to kick it back out.

Dickie? came an inquisitive thought—it didn’t feel like a word mentally spoken, it felt like an impression, and when Dick reached out it, it was accompanied by a dazzling network of memories and emotions.  He was looking at himself from the outside, from the point of view of a little boy that wanted nothing more than his approval, that had placed Dick on a pedestal so high Dick was getting dizzy just experiencing it.

Jaybird, Dick tried crafting his own impression in response, shoving the resentment and irritation as far down as he could in the hopes that Jason couldn’t find it.  He bundled up all his hopes and wishes for a baby brother and flung it across the mental space.

One moment Jason was on the outside, peering in, asking for entry—and the next he was in, tangled up thoroughly with Dick’s emotions, rifling through his head like it was a flipbook.  Confusion and panic and fear flitted across Dick’s mind, slow like molasses, and were easily batted aside.  Comfort rose out of the tangle, and contentment, the lazy purr of a cat slumbering in a sunspot.

It felt good. Dick was…Dick was supposed to be doing something.  They were in a warehouse.  They…they had to get home?  But the warehouse was empty and everything was quiet here.

[the1920sinpictures]

1927 Postcard of the Jack and Jill ride at Coney Island. Customers sitting on mats were taken to the top of the slide by conveyor and dumped into the mouth of the spiral slide. At the bottom a belt caught you and slowed you down gently. From Jeff Stern, FB.

[taffywabbit]

[kind of a longwinded vent post i guess, i was gonna just make a sort of tired joke post but then it actually wasn't a joke oops. don't feel obligated to read this, i just need to put my thoughts somewhere]

man. i am wayyy too damn busy this week to be getting hit with as many heavy thoughts and potentially entire-perspective-on-life-altering realizations about my identity and mental health as i have been. why can't i ever have important stuff to think about during literally any time when my life affords me the time and energy to think about it properly. it just ends up being loud background static behind my existing stress every time because it's like... i obviously do have tangible stuff i NEED to prioritize, and it's reasonable for me to put that first, but i still end up feeling like i'm somehow being cowardly or irresponsible by putting off the internal processing that's demanding i pay more attention to it.

i'm literally just living that one post that's like "i'm probably nonbinary but i have a job so i don't really care about that right now" or whatever, except i'm already trans so swap that first part out for a growing list of possible untreated mental illnesses, an increasingly-hard-to-ignore identity crisis, the looming dread that i cannot keep treading water in my current stagnant career forever. also, most notably, a general sense that i have no idea where my life is going or what i want from it now that i've finally broken down my mental wall labeled "you can't pursue anything else you want until you get your ass in gear and start transitioning already", gotten some joy out of that, and then realized there wasn't much else it was actually obstructing. and it's like. breaking that wall DID at least give me a clearer view of things and now i have plenty of other important stuff i could unpack, but it feels like i'm just stuck on a nonstop conveyor belt of "actually i don't have time for that because i'm behind on work again" that prevents me from making real tangible progress in figuring my shit out, even now.

like i am aware this is very much a "GOD i need to talk to a therapist" type situation but guess what! seeing a therapist costs a lot of money (yes, even in canada) and takes time and effort to set up, and if i want those things i'd better get my work done! except oops now i'm once again too busy to do anything BUT work, because i burned out and slowed down and the work took too long again and now i no longer have the time for the genuine proper break i needed in order to do anything for myself besides earn money.

one of the most frustrating parts is that HRT has seemingly made me a lot more emotionally sensitive and outwardly reactive (as it reportedly does for many people), and instead of that being the cathartic experience it should be, it usually just manifests as all my shit very visibly unraveling at the seams as i spiral and make an ass of myself and push people away, where i previously would've at LEAST been able to hold it together a bit better. so not only do i feel like i'm not making progress, it's constantly taking all the energy i can spare just to avoid crashing out and burning all my bridges and leaving myself with no external supports. my friends are kinda all i have right now, and i'm painfully aware that the more i procrastinate sorting out my issues, the more danger there is that i'll damage my relationships with those i care about if any of this internal pressure leaks out at the wrong time. which then becomes yet another fear to add to the pile of stuff i'm not equipped to deal with right now

idk. i was about to instinctively say "i'm fine tho" and that's very clearly a lie, but like. i WILL continue to manage at least. i'm not in any physical danger from myself or others, nothing is gonna happen to me, you don't have to worry about anything like that. i'm just overwhelmed and exhausted, and i don't have any good outlets for talking about this shit anymore besides just dumping it on friends at random, which feels shitty and i would really prefer not to make a habit of it. i just feel like i'm waiting for some kinda stroke of good fortune to come along and perk me up and give me enough of a jolt of extra energy to start doing things differently, kinda like last year when i suddenly stumbled into getting my transition stuff started and then THAT gave me enough confidence and excitement to seek out an ADHD diagnosis a couple months later. just something to break me out of this routine temporarily and help me feel unburdened enough that i can do SOMETHING, y'know?

but in the meantime i feel like i just need to like. signal in some way that i am Really Going Through It, if only to counter my own instinctive efforts to always maintain this illusion of perfect functionality and never cause any problems or allow anyone to worry about me or be annoyed by me ever. professionalism be damned, i make art for a living, i do not have the luxury of separating my job from my self-expression and trying to pretend everything's going smoothly in terms of work will always kinda inherently come at the cost of trying to convince myself it's going smoothly in my personal life too. to some extent i suppose MOST people don't - the shit that affects you at home is gonna affect you at your office job too, sooner or later - but in my case the false wall of work-life balance is like a two-way mirror, because drawing is also my most treasured hobby and lifelong source of comfort, and any outward-facing concept of professionalism i construct only exists for my audience. there's no fooling myself with this stuff, it's all i have and all i do and the only difference is that sometimes people pay me for it so it becomes "work", but not the kind i get to clock out of at 5pm on weekdays. if i'm going to talk about what i'm going through and be open about my feelings at all and encourage people to see me as a living breathing person, it inherently is going to make me look like i'm also complaining about my job, because my job is to make art and my art (paid or not) conveys a part of who i am. i cannot present myself as brand-safe and a human being at the same time, at least not without driving myself (more) insane

anyways this isn't an essay or anything, i don't have a conclusion? thank you for being here i guess. i feel like i'm at least breathing like 5% easier after getting all that rambling out of me, so that's something at least? i will now go buckle down and try to finish my remaining art obligations and then hopefully when that's done i will make a responsible choice and wait long enough before piling more work onto myself to just like. breathe for a sec and seriously consider if there's perhaps a better way to be doing what i'm doing so it does not make me crumble into dust. and also maybe pick like ONE life-shattering realization or crisis to poke at a little bit, if i feel up to it. hey btw did you know this whole post was originally going to just be a very short one where i half-jokingly reflected on the possibility that i might actually be autistic, but then started thinking way too much about why my brain refuses to latch onto that thought and keeps pushing it aside with a big stick labeled "who cares, i'm tired" and this post happened instead. yeah. anyways that's the most recent small addition to The Pile in case you were curious, yippee

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Richard Dawkins

Published: Apr 23, 2025

On April 18th, the New York Times published an article by Lauren Jackson called “Americans Haven’t Found a Satisfying Alternative to Religion”. It’s very long, but you can probably guess what she correctly lists as unsatisfying alternatives, failed attempts to fill the void of existential insecurity, the god-shaped hole: New Age “spirituality”, astrology, you know the kind of thing. She was kind enough to quote me, so I offer a brief response here.

I am sorry if there is, as she says, an “epidemic of loneliness”. But the remedy for loneliness is human fellowship, the warmth of real, live, flesh-and-blood companions and loved-ones; not prating in a vacuum to an imaginary friend for whose existence there is no vestige of serious evidence. Even an AI robot is better than that. At least ChatGPT exists, really talks back at  you, will actually hold a friendly conversation. But talk to the imaginary friend which is God (Allah, Virgin Mary, Lord Krishna, Thor, Zeus, Mithras, name yours) and the only reply you’ll get is conjured within your own imagination. You’ll be talking to yourself, which is really rather sad, and hardly an antidote to loneliness.

I feel I should qualify, even apologise for, the optimistic tone of what follows. Americans might feel anything but cheerful just at present. Of course I acknowledge this and sympathize. But it has nothing to do with the eternal cosmic angst that religion aspires to assuage, and which prompted Lauren Jackson’s search for alternatives. Moreover, I don’t want to downplay the anguish of the search, nor the epidemic of loneliness that she discerns, and I regret that I was a little facetious when she interviewed me on the telephone. My humorous frivolity went so far as to recommend golf as an alternative, and for this I apologise. I’m better at writing than speaking, so let me now try to express more seriously what I should have said to her. She began with a remorseful testament of her own loss of faith, so forgive me if I too bare my soul when I offer my personal non-religious alternative to religion.

There is joy in understanding, true joy, rising to little short of ecstasy. I suppose you could call it the poetry of reality. Peter Atkins concludes his lovely little book, The Creation, with a vision of the limitless future of science: “Complete knowledge is just within our grasp. Comprehension is moving across the face of the Earth, like the sunrise.”

You tumble into existence, open your eyes, come to consciousness, find yourself on a spinning sphere orbiting a nuclear furnace in one arm of a barred spiral galaxy, hurtling through spacetime alongside 300 billion galaxies. The fact that you exist at all is a piece of shattering good fortune. Not only did your parents chance to meet, not only did one particular sperm outrun 100 million rivals. The same massive luck attended every generation of your ancestors, back to a single Devonian fish and a greater distance beyond. Any slight deviation in what happened, anywhere, anytime, would have sufficed to throw your future existence off the conveyor belt of lucky contingencies. You certainly owe your existence to Julius Caesar, Napoleon, even Hitler, but less obviously to a humble peasant who didn’t sneeze at a crucial moment in some forgotten marital bed. You owe your life to a particular dinosaur, on a particular Jurassic day, who stumbled and failed to catch the ancestor of all the mammals. You are prodigiously lucky to be alive. So please stifle your entitled moaning. Revel in your own existence.

Not just your existence but the existence of others to share your world and sweeten your time in it: fellow voyagers to smile at you, laugh with you, hold your hand along the pilgrim’s way through your personal slice of time. You and I are privileged not only to be alive but to inhabit the twenty-first century when so much is already understood. We who live after Newton, Darwin, Maxwell, Einstein, and their legions of clever but lesser-known followers, we are blessed with the opportunity to know so much. But also to know what we do not know, and so experience the joy of curiosity, of constructive wonder, the buccaneering adventure of the restless mind.

Who needs New Age spirituality (“sound baths”, “energy healing”, “astrology”), who needs to thumb-suck under a mental comfort blanket, who needs gods, when reality is there for the taking?

[jeonjayykkayy]

Masterlist / 15

Her

pairing: Jungkook x reader

Genre: Romance/ Angst/ Drama/ SlowBurn

Words- Approx. 2k

Jungkook’s POV

The moment Jimin’s footsteps faded behind the front door, the apartment was swallowed by silence. A silence so loud it rang in my ears.

I stood there for a long time, unmoving.

The bundle of cash lay scattered on the dusty floorboards—my share. My payment. Our blood-earned money.

My fingers twitched.

My jaw clenched.

I bent down slowly, scooping it all up with trembling hands. It felt heavier than it should’ve been. As if each note carried a part of me Jimin had just ripped away.

My chest tightened, burning, and a lump lodged itself in my throat. I sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows digging into my knees, and stared at the floor. My mind was spinning, spiralling, caught between his words and mine.

“From today onwards, you’re nothing to me.”

Nothing. He said it like I didn’t matter. Like the years we struggled together, fought together, meant nothing.

And yet…

I knew why he did it. He was trying to pull me out of the storm I refused to leave. Trying to save me from myself. But it still hurt like hell.

“Yeah… go,” I muttered under my breath, running a hand through my hair, voice hoarse and cracking. “Leave me too.”

You all do, anyway.

I rubbed my face hard, trying to get rid of the tears that threatened to spill, but my hands came back damp. I sniffled once, hard, as I dragged myself to the bathroom. A splash of cold water couldn’t cleanse this ache, but I had to move. I had to function.

I had to work

Author's perspective

The air was still and heavy when Jungkook stepped out of the apartment.

The metal door clicked shut behind him, and with it, the weight of a thousand unsaid words sealed off in the silence he left behind. His eyes burned, not just from lack of sleep but from the fight—the words Jimin hurled, the ones he returned, and the ones that stayed unspoken like sharp stones wedged in his throat.

Jungkook shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders hunched against the morning chill. The city hadn’t quite woken up yet, but the early buzz was beginning—delivery vans rumbling, neon signs flickering off, crows cawing into the dim gray sky. He didn’t look up. Couldn’t.

His boots scuffed against the cracked pavement, the soles worn thin, the laces frayed. Just like him.

He walked fast—too fast—but it still felt like the road beneath his feet was a conveyor belt moving backwards, dragging him into a spiral he couldn’t escape. His mind looped with the images of last night. The trembling in Y/N’s voice. Her sobs. She said she wanted to run away. Her saying his name with a kind of desperation he never thought he’d hear from her.

He had said no.

He had said no, even when every piece of him had screamed yes.

And Jimin… God, Jimin had left him. His brother. His only person. Gone.

He clenched his jaw as he reached the café’s back door, the rusted one near the alley. It groaned open when he pulled it, the familiar scent of bitter coffee and sweet bread hitting him like a memory he wasn’t ready for. The kitchen light flickered above, casting tired shadows on the walls.

No one greeted him.

He didn’t expect them to.

Jungkook changed in the storage room—if you could call pulling off his hoodie and tying on a stained apron “changing.” His reflection in the dusty mirror startled him. His eyes looked swollen. Hollow. His lips were chapped. He looked like someone who hadn’t been eating, and maybe he hadn’t. Not really.

He tucked his hair under the black cap, adjusted the strap, and headed out front.

“Morning,” mumbled the owner, not even looking up from the register.

Jungkook gave a nod and took his station by the espresso machine.

The hiss of steam, the clink of cups, the hum of the grinder—it should’ve been comforting. Routine. But today, it felt like a punishment. Each cup he filled felt like a reminder that he was stuck. Not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. His soul felt bruised, and his bones ached not from labour but from loneliness.

A customer snapped their fingers to get his attention.

“Americano. Extra shot.”

Jungkook blinked, startled, then nodded silently.

His hands shook slightly as he pulled the shot. The scent of the brew, dark and rich, reminded him of the first time Jimin had laughed at him for mixing sugar before pouring milk. “You ruin it like that,” he’d teased. His smile had stretched wide, his eyes soft and amused.

Now that memory tasted bitter.

He burned his fingers while lifting the metal jug.

“Shit,” he muttered, jerking his hand away. The skin sizzled faintly red.

“You okay, kid?” called the boss.

“Fine,” Jungkook replied, teeth gritted.

He wasn’t fine. But he always said he was.

Hours passed in blurs of coffee orders and polite nods. The crowd thickened as morning turned to noon, and the café filled with laughter, chatter, the scrape of chairs, the tapping of laptop keys. Jungkook stayed silent. Kept his head down. But his thoughts were loud.

‘Jimin hates me.’

‘Y/N is going to be married in a week.’

‘My mother still needs her surgery.’

‘And me? I’m just… making coffee.’

At one point, he looked up and saw a girl with long, dark hair at a table near the window. She was laughing into her phone, cheeks pink, fingers twirling her straw.

For a moment, his heart leapt.

Y/N?

But no.

It wasn’t her. Of course, it wasn’t.

She wasn’t laughing right now. She was probably crying. Hiding her phone. Dreading her wedding. All because of him.

He felt like he was drowning—sinking beneath layers of failure and guilt.

A short break came at 3 PM.

He sat in the alley behind the café, knees drawn up, sipping cold coffee from a paper cup. It tasted like cardboard. He didn’t care. His fingers traced the rim slowly.

His thoughts wandered.

Back to when he first got the café job. How proud he’d been to tell his mother. The way her voice, tired but loving, had cracked through the phone. “I’m so proud of you, baby.”

Now, even that voice felt far away.

She didn’t even know how much he was suffering. How much he missed Jimin. How much he was losing his mind.

He leaned his head against the cold brick wall and finally—finally—let a tear slip.

Just one.

He bit down on his knuckle to keep the rest from following.

But it hurt. God, it hurt.

How was it that one person—one girl—could make him feel everything and nothing at once?

A door slammed somewhere behind him.

He sat up, wiped his face.

“Break’s over,” the manager called.

Jungkook stood up, bones heavy. He threw the cup in the trash and went back inside.

And just like that, the mask was back on.

Another order. Another smile.

Another piece of him quietly breaking inside.

Got it! Here's a detailed scene from Jimin's point of view, working at the restaurant, with deep sensory and emotional layers, as requested.

Ji

The metallic clink of knives on porcelain echoed around him like a dull heartbeat.

Jimin wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, the cloth of his apron sticking to his lower back, damp and uncomfortable. The restaurant was already half full, the breakfast crowd a mix of local businessfolk and tired-eyed tourists. Somewhere near the back, the coffee machine hissed like it was alive, steam curling up and fogging the counter’s edge.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t smile like he usually did.

Didn’t even greet the regulars who called him “sunshine” every other morning.

Because today, he wasn’t. Not even close.

His fingers trembled slightly as he stacked two plates—scrambled eggs with toast and avocado on one, an omelette with cheese and peppers on the other—and slid them onto a tray. The orders weren’t heavy, but his arms ached. Not from physical labour—he was used to that—but from the tightness in his chest. That weight pressing down since dawn.

He hadn’t spoken to Jungkook since he left.

Didn’t look back either.

Because if he had, he would’ve cracked.

He would’ve gone back and hugged his dumb younger brother and told him everything would be fine, and that he could cry all he wanted—but he didn’t.

Because love sometimes looked like silence.

Jimin gritted his teeth, brushing past a chair that wasn’t pushed in properly. It scraped against the wooden floor with a screech, loud and sharp enough to make him wince. He caught an old lady looking at him from the window seat. She offered a tiny, wrinkled smile.

He didn’t return it.

Just bowed lightly and moved to Table 3.

“Here’s your order,” he said, voice low but steady, placing the plates down with practised hands.

“Thank you,” one of the men said. “You alright, kid? You look...”

Jimin nodded quickly, cutting off the pity.

“Fine, sir. Enjoy your meal.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Just turned and walked back toward the kitchen, the sound of sizzling oil and murmured conversations around him like background noise in a storm of his own thoughts.

He washed his hands.

Twice.

Maybe three times.

He wasn’t sure. He just stood there at the sink, hot water running, staring at the dull silver basin while the world around him blurred at the edges. His reflection in the steel panel across was distorted—his face stretched, his eyes sunken.

He barely recognised himself.

His mind wouldn’t stop replaying this morning.

Jungkook yelling after him.

Jungkook said he’d been left alone.

Jungkook thought he wasn’t loved.

The sponge in his hand slipped and fell into the sink, but Jimin didn’t move. Just stood there, breathing hard.

You also deceive me, right? You never considered me your brother.

That voice. That ache. That brokenness in his tone.

It haunted him.

Because Jimin did love him.

More than anything.

He just didn’t know how to save him anymore.

The manager yelled his name from across the kitchen.

“Yah, Park! Orders are backing up!”

“Coming!” he called, snapping out of the haze and grabbing the next tray.

Two cappuccinos, one blueberry waffle, and one grilled cheese with soup.

Table 5.

He moved with robotic precision, every muscle in his body obeying like they’d been trained—but his heart was elsewhere. Still stuck in the apartment, in the kitchen, where the cash fell on the floor and his brother screamed at a wall.

He bit his tongue to stop the sting in his eyes.

He had no time to cry.

The bell above the restaurant door jingled. A group of teens entered, their laughter too loud, their presence heavy. One of them knocked over a salt shaker. Another whistled at a waitress. Jimin stared, eyebrows furrowing, his exhaustion curling into silent anger.

Jungkook would’ve scolded them. Loudly. Brave like that.

But Jimin just walked past.

Because if he opened his mouth right now, he wasn’t sure what would come out—anger or pain.

During his fifteen-minute break, he sat on the steps behind the kitchen.

The alley smelled of cigarette smoke and frying oil and distant rain. He hated it, but today it felt better than the noise inside. The cool wind against his skin was a relief, whispering against the heat stuck beneath his collar.

He leaned back, head resting on the cold brick wall.

Closed his eyes.

Tried to breathe.

But it all came rushing back again.

Jungkook’s voice. His eyes when he cried. The crack in his voice when he said, “Now you go also. I’m left alone.”

Jimin clenched his jaw, biting down hard enough to hurt.

He remembered when they were kids—Jungkook was always trailing after him. Always asking questions. Always looking at him like he was some kind of hero.

Now?

He probably looked at him like a traitor.

Jimin dug his nails into his palm until they left crescent-shaped marks.

Back inside, the crowd thinned.

He wiped the tables quietly.

Folded napkins.

Cleaned the espresso machine.

Did every menial task with silent discipline, trying to fill the void that had cracked open inside him.

The other workers left him alone. Even Sun-hee, the chatterbox pastry chef, didn’t ask why he was so quiet today. Maybe they knew. Maybe they just respected his silence.

But he was tired of silence.

Tired of pretending that what he did this morning hadn’t broken him, too.

By the time the lunch shift started, the restaurant was busy again.

People ordered pasta, steak, and risotto.

Laughter echoed.

Cutlery clinked.

Jimin smiled where he needed to, bowed where it was polite, thanked and nodded and took plates back and forth—but he wasn’t there.

He was thinking about the boy who once ran barefoot down the street just to bring him a popsicle on a hot day. The boy who stitched up Jimin’s hand when he broke a glass and cried harder than him. The boy who never had much but gave Jimin his whole heart.

And now?

Jimin had to push him away—for his own good.

But God, it hurt.

It hurt like hell.

And if Jungkook never forgave him… Jimin wasn’t sure he’d forgive himself either.

[softsky-daily]

9/24/2024

I always love the gradient of the sunset. The sky seems so much brighter when the sun has sunken so low.

Positive thing: I had a good therapy session and ate, like, a lot of crab.

It was sooo much crab. Probably 8 plates worth of crab. I skipped class and went to the nearby conveyor belt sushi place and honestly between that and therapy, I felt a lot better than yesterday.

Soo much crab... I did have other sushi but most of these plates came from crab. And then I ate more after I took this picture too. Crab will always save me from a depressive spiral, 100% guaranteed.

Anyway, class was canceled on Thursday because of the hurricane warning, so I'm hoping it'll be mild and I can just enjoy my free day. I'm glad too because I had a paper due that day and now it'll have to be pushed back. Hehe.

Tomorrow I'm seeing career counseling clients by myself for the first time, so I'm a little nervous about that. I went over my training manual and looked over what the clients want to work on though, so I feel like I prepared as best as I could. Hopefully it'll go by quickly and then I can enjoy my afternoon.

[nanotechnologyworld]

MIT engineers recently discovered that chirality can emerge in an entirely nonchiral material, and through nonchiral means. In a study appearing today in Nature Communications, the team reports observing chirality in a liquid crystal — a material that flows like a liquid and has non ordered, crystal-like microstructure like a solid. They found that when the fluid flows slowly, its normally nonchiral microstructures spontaneously assemble into large, twisted, chiral structures. The effect is as if a conveyor belt of crayons, all symmetrically aligned, were to suddenly rearrange into large, spiral patterns once the belt reaches a certain speed.

[sspacegodd]

He suddenly lost his footing on the Earth as it spun hurtling through space at ungodly speeds but leaving his hair untousled.

He'd often imagined on countless walks that it was actually he who was stationary as the world rotated beneath him like an omni-directional conveyor belt he could ride up and down, here and there, a gerbil with a purpose, cranking sex, wealth, and power toward himself, while twisting greed, ignorance, and disease clear to the other side of the unknown universe --- and while he was at it, straight down a wormhole into formlessness and one more chance.

He sincerely wished peace for all sentient beings and everything else but suspiciously understood from milleniums of personal whittling, pruning, and husking, that that little powerful tango of desire and object can sometimes step on unconscious toes. He ricocheted between aceticism and opulence, austerity and tantra, each position digitalized and traced, creating a beautiful spirographic design, the mandalic web of a fractal yawn, a spinning plate that hits the floor spiralling but never quite rattling to a stop -- a burning wish for apathy.

He pined for the demise of desire and longed for contentment.

[mita-vittua-olivia]

bro i need someone to tell me whether i’m currently being turned into a victim of the spiral-

i’m on the bus right now and we were stuck in traffic when the bus started driving backwards a little. i looked out of the window and the actual roadway had pushed us back. like a conveyor belt. i swear it looked and felt like it. and i’m sitting pretty close to the driver so i think i would have seen him steering back.

but. it’s not possible for a roadway to do that. right? roadways aren’t conveyor belts. help me am i actually going insane right now?

[doris-qunkun]

Decorative conveyor belt also called spiral decorative mesh belts, is a type of decorative metal fabric. It is composed of rods in horizon and bend wires in vertical. The rods can be straight or bent. It was originally used in industry, mainly for the transportation of raw materials or products on the assembly line. Later, because of the beautiful pattern, exquisite workmanship and other characteristics, it has been gradually accepted and approved by designers in architecture system.

[mechaircompany]

IQF Spiral Freezers: A Smart Choice for Space and Efficiency

Quick freezing is one of the main requirements in the world of frozen food processing. The faster you freeze, the better you preserve taste, texture, and shelf life. More often than not, food producers rely on IQF (Individually Quick Frozen) spiral freezers for efficient freezing.

However, freezing is not just about speed or energy, it is also about space and uptime.

IQF is widely used for quickly freezing various types of foods, including fried foods, seafood, meat, prepared meals, mushrooms, chicken parts, packaged food, and ready-to-eat items.

How IQF is Changing the Game in the Food Industry?

Floor space in food processing facilities is as expensive as it can get. Whether you want to set up a new line or retrofit an older plant, footprint plays an important role. A traditional tunnel freezer or linear belt setup might get the job done, but it eats up valuable real estate.

That is where IQF spiral freezers come in!

Spiral freezers stack their conveyor belts upward in a smart spiral layout. They make use of vertical space and keep the footprint small. Even with just 20–30 square meters on the floor, these systems can freeze up to 3,000 kg of food products per hour.

These freezers are a big help for food processing units in crowded Indian cities where space is tight and land comes at a premium. A spiral freezer can help a plant grow its capacity without having to hunt for bigger premises, a real lifesaver for small and mid-size setups.

Why Uptime Is Crucial for Your Freezing Line

Another overlooked metric is production uptime.

Freezing lines do not stop just because your freezer needs a defrost cycle or has an ice buildup. In fact, unplanned downtime even for a few hours can slow down your entire operation.

Modern IQF spiral freezers now come equipped with continuous defrosting systems and improved airflow designs that reduce frost accumulation. These systems offer longer uninterrupted runs, fewer cleaning stops, and more consistent output.

In high-volume operations — like frozen French fries or chicken nuggets — this alone can save thousands of production hours annually.

Benefits of Spiral IQF

Spiral IQF is easy to install, test and uninstall.

It is capable of freezing a wide range of products.

It provides high freezing efficiency.

It can fit in less space.

It comes with minimum maintenance cost.

Many Indian processors have a misconception that IQF freezers are out of reach; they are complex, expensive, and suited only for massive plants. But that is not the case. 

Local manufacturers are now offering customizable spiral freezers built to Indian production norms, with robust SS304 materials, localized support, and energy-efficient compressors tuned for tropical conditions.

Some even come with remote monitoring options, allowing operators to track temperature uniformity, belt tension, and maintenance alerts right from a dashboard. Looking for a reliable IQF spiral freezer manufacturer in India? Please visit us here: https://mechair.in/.

[dishafoods-unwrap]

Unwrap - Le Classico (Choco Rolls)

Gift Hampers| Premium Chocolate Gifts| Cookies Gift Boxes| Unwrap Happiness| Dry Fruits Hampers| Wafer Sticks| Online| Snacks Gift Hampers| Products| Occasions Hampers| Customized Gifts| Premium Herbal Teas

Unwrap Happiness curates exquisite confections that honor India’s rich culinary heritage with a refined global twist. From handpicked ingredients to artful packaging, every hamper is a luxurious expression of taste, tradition, and thoughtfulness—perfect for festive moments, corporate elegance, or personal indulgence.

Manufacturing Process: Le Classico Choco Rolls

Ingredient Preparation

High-quality ingredients like refined wheat flour, cocoa powder, butter, and sugar are precisely measured.

Cocoa paste and chocolate compounds are melted and tempered to ensure smooth texture.

Dough Mixing

A rich, soft dough is created by blending flour, fats, sugar, and a chocolate essence base.

The dough is aerated slightly to maintain a soft bite post-baking.

Sheeting & Rolling

The dough is sheeted to a uniform thickness and filled with luscious chocolate crème or ganache.

Rolled carefully into classic Swiss-roll style cylinders or spiral forms.

Baking

Rolls are baked at optimal temperature to maintain softness while ensuring stability and shelf life.

Cooling is done on a conveyor belt to avoid condensation inside the packaging.

Coating (Optional)

Rolls may be enrobed in a silky chocolate coating or dusted with cocoa powder or icing sugar.

Packaging

Individually wrapped using moisture-proof packaging to preserve freshness and prevent melting.

Final boxes are quality-checked, batch-coded, and sealed for shipment.

Key Ingredients

Refined Wheat Flour (Maida)

Sugar

Cocoa Powder

Chocolate Compound or Coverture

Butter or Vegetable Fat

Milk Solids

Emulsifiers (e.g., lecithin)

Natural & Artificial Flavors (vanilla, cocoa)

Baking Powder / Baking Soda

Salt

Preservatives (as per shelf-life requirements)

Available & Suggested Flavors

Classic Choco Fudge

Rich chocolate sponge with a creamy fudge center.

Hazelnut Delight

Chocolate roll with a smooth hazelnut cocoa filling.

Mocha Swirl

Coffee-infused chocolate sponge with mocha crème.

Dark Fantasy

Intense dark chocolate sponge with bitter-sweet ganache.

Choco Orange Zest

Chocolate sponge paired with a citrusy orange filling.

Almond Crunch

Filled with almond praline paste and bits of roasted almonds.

Berry Cocoa Bliss (seasonal)

Chocolate sponge with raspberry or strawberry infused crème.

For More Details: https://www.unwraphappiness.in/