Touch me. Touch me like you didn't touch me last night.

Contemplating the Doomsday Clock as my first tattoo.

I'm not being morbid or horrible, I promise.

While there I certainly do have a strange fascination with its concept and execution, it would be more of a physical representation on my body that we're not there yet.

We haven't done ourselves in and, as long as this tattoo is there, my existence and our collective existence is confirmed.

Sygil magic, innit?

The question is which of the iconic images of it:

The original, from the front of the Bulletin of Atomic Scientists:



Or the "modern" version:


I'm leaning towards the former, but...

With the background? Without?
Obviously the arm wouldn't be white.

I'd also likely do it at 9 minutes to midnight, with my OCD obsession with the number three and its multiples therein.

Thoughts?

b

When I finally get to the moon they'll just KNOW to have this song ready for me as I take off running across the surface...

Yet another reason H.G. Wells was so fucking awesome. In The Conquest of Time--a rewrite of a previous book of his--published in 1942, he predicted the future, most notably the internet, didn't he?:

     "[Man] can contrive urban and suburban roads that will carry him at his ease to air-port, sea-port, or wherever he wants to be--he need not follow them, for they will carry him; before very long, he will be able to summon everything there is to be seen, every machine, every show, every living thing, every masterpiece and movement, in its utmost vitality and in any detail, to his study table; he can hear all the music in the world, and, if he wants to do so, all life's edifying discords. All this he will be able do do whenever he chooses to do it as a species. For all this we have chapter and verse. The experiments have been made; the samples pass muster...
     These are man's present possibilities; and without haste and without delay he can complete his material conquest. He will soon be able to talk to anyone anywhere, be withing help of everyone, and laugh at the tides and seasons that once chased his hunted heart-beats round the year."

Zounds.

lovenmitt  has beautiful, prophetic dreams:

"Then I witnessed a bald benchilada get drunk and use some program he found on the internet to make it look like the Matrix was coming out of his head. If you've never seen the Matrix (not the movie, but the matrix in the movie) come out of someone's head, it's all very Neal Stephenson and cool."