The ballad of the burnt mouth

Yesterday I rather foolishly burnt my mouth; reading and eating at the same time, I failed to notice that my lunch was hotter than the surface of the sun until the damage was done. Today I've noticed everything tastes faintly of burning and blood, and eating requires meticulous care.

The architecture of the Empire

Theres something wonderfully SFnal about Frédéric Chaubin's photos of late Soviet architecture: the Druzhba sanatorium and the Georgian highways ministry seem to rise out the trees like sets from Return of the Jedi, while the Armenian presidential retreat is pure Attack of the Clones.