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Sean Devitt
“You’re a ghost driving a meat coated skeleton made from stardust, what do you have to be scared of?”
“You’re a ghost driving a meat coated skeleton made from stardust, what do you have to be scared of?”
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So long. LLAP.

Leonard Nimoy - The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins:

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Some assembly required. #caturday

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Reckon interpreting Morricone's work would be life's work.
(Mission ST still makes me all weepy) #morricone  

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You are all sexy starstuff to me.
"The nitrogen in our DNA, the calcium in our teeth, the iron in our blood, the carbon in our apple pies were made in the interiors of collapsing stars. We are made of starstuff." 
― Carl Sagan, Cosmos

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"Paging a Mr Danforth..."
Ice-dwelling sea anemones discovered in Antarctica. You fill in the rest. 

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Spain  and Strummer on the brain. Later Joe. #joestrummer #theclash  

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I wish you all a Happy day. Gather with those you love or tolerate at best. Light a fire, sing songs and feast with style. Adventure awaits tomorrow.
Happy Winter Solstice!

Today marks the winter solstice, when the daily path of the Sun in the sky has its lowest peak - or, if you prefer, the north pole of the Earth's axis is tipped away from the Sun as much as it can. From now on we get longer days, shorter nights, and a Sun edging up higher every day in the sky. Yay!

Here's the science behind the real reason for the seasons:

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This popped up on my newsfeed. Not only is it the single finest National Anthem out there, it's a fitting tribute to the passing of Mandela.

Anthem for Doomed Youth
By Wilfred Owen
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
      Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
      Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,
      Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
      And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
      Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
      The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

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