christafo

He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.

The silver Swan, who, living, had no Note, when Death approached, unlocked her silent throat. Leaning her breast upon the reedy shore, thus sang her first and last, and sang no more: "Farewell, all joys! O Death, come close mine eyes! More Geese than Swans now live, more Fools than Wise.

Times Square

Image from a photo article by National Geographic about insect eggs. Amazing!

No more needles. New technology injects drugs via a mosquito proboscis' sized jet.

Jazzers

Camouflaged camera.