Joying.eth

all in on memecoins // prediction markets // ex Bet365

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

TWO SPECIES OF STICK INSECT JUST BECAME FIVE. EVERY CONSERVATION ASSESSMENT BUILT ON THE OLD NUMBER IS NOW WRONG.

A revision of the Australian stick insect genus Anchiale, published this week in Austral Entomology, split what was classified as 2 species into 5. Two entirely new to science. One restored after a century filed under the wrong name.

This keeps happening.

Gentoo penguins, earlier this year. One species became four. The tilcayo tiger cat. Filed as a known species for decades, turned out to be its own lineage. Now stick insects. Same pattern. Same result. Same problem.

When a species splits, the population doesn't change. The same number of animals exists on the same land in the same forests. Nothing biological happens on the day a paper is published.

But everything administrative happens.

Conservation assessments are built per species. Threat status. Habitat range. Population estimates. Monitoring programs. Funding. All indexed by species name. One name, one entry, one assessment.

When Anchiale was 2 species spread across tropical Queensland, the range looked wide. The population looked stable. The genus didn't trigger any red flags.

Now Anchiale is 5 species. One of them, mabiensis, exists exclusively in 1,050 hectares of critically endangered Mabi rainforest. Another, robusta, has a range that nobody has properly mapped because every data point collected over the last 50 years was filed under a different species' name.

The range data for briareus now includes records that belong to robusta. Nobody knows which are which without re-examining each specimen. Fifty years of field observations, citizen science uploads, museum entries, all contaminated by a name that covered two animals.

Two species looked healthy. Five species include at least one that might be critically endangered, one whose actual range is unknown, and three whose population boundaries have never been drawn because they didn't exist as separate entries until this week.

The spreadsheet had 2 rows. Now it needs 5. Three of them are empty.

No range map. No population estimate. No threat assessment. No monitoring baseline. Nothing. Just a name, a type specimen, and a paper that says they exist.

The taxonomy moved. The conservation infrastructure didn't. The gap between the two is where species go extinct without anyone noticing, because the line item they would have been on didn't exist when the budget was written.

Five species. Two of them new. One trapped in a disappearing forest. One with half a century of corrupted data.

The animals haven't changed. The paperwork just got real.

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

FLORIDA SPENT 50 YEARS BUILDING A SYSTEM TO PROTECT SEA TURTLE NESTS. CALIFORNIA HAS 45 DAYS TO BUILD ONE FROM SCRATCH.

Last week an olive ridley sea turtle laid eggs on Huntington Beach. First recorded nesting of any sea turtle species on the entire US West Coast. Three days later, a second clutch appeared near the pier. NOAA confirmed both.

The eggs are in the sand. Incubation takes 45 to 60 days. The clock is running.

Here is what Florida has, built over five decades of turtle nesting:

Mandatory lighting ordinances along every nesting beach. Beachfront hotels, restaurants, condos, all required by law to dim, shield, or redirect lights during nesting season. Because hatchlings navigate by the brightest horizon. On a natural beach, that's moonlight on the ocean. On a developed beach, that's a parking lot.

Thousands of permitted volunteers walking every mile of nesting beach every morning from May through October. Logging new nests. Marking them. Caging them against raccoons, coyotes, birds.

Trained relocation teams that move nests threatened by high tides or erosion to safer spots higher on the beach. Within hours. With state permits. Following protocols tested over decades.

Hatchling emergence response teams. When a nest hatches, volunteers clear a corridor to the water, shield the path from artificial light, and count every hatchling that makes it to the surf.

State and county laws that make it a crime to disturb a nest, touch an egg, or shine a light on a nesting turtle. Fines up to $100,000. Jail time.

Veterinary support networks. Rehab centers. Satellite tagging programs. Decades of nesting data that tell you which beach, which week, which stretch of sand.

Here is what California has:

A fence.

Two fences. One around each nest. Built by lifeguards who had never seen a sea turtle on their beach and initially thought the animal was dying.

No lighting ordinances. Huntington Beach Pier lights up like a stadium every night. The Pacific Coast Highway runs parallel to the beach. Hotels, bars, boardwalk. Light everywhere, in every direction, all night.

No volunteer patrol network. Nobody has ever walked this beach looking for turtle tracks because there have never been turtle tracks to find.

No relocation protocol. If a storm surge threatens the nests, nobody in California has a permit, training, or legal framework to move sea turtle eggs.

No hatchling corridor plan. When those eggs hatch, the baby turtles will crawl out of the sand and orient toward the brightest light they can find. At Huntington Beach, that's the pier. The highway. The Hilton. Every direction except the ocean.

In Florida, a single disoriented hatchling triggers an emergency response. At Huntington Beach, every single hatchling will be disoriented. All of them. There is no dark corridor to the water. Nobody has built one. Nobody has ever needed to.

After the nests were confirmed, someone from NOAA contacted the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission and asked for emergency guidance. A PDF of protocols, checklists, light management plans. Documents that took Florida 30 years to develop, forwarded by email to a team that has never used them, for a beach that has never needed them.

45 days to learn what took an entire state half a century.

And here is the part that makes it permanent: if the eggs hatch, the hatchlings will imprint on this beach. Olive ridleys return to their birth beach for life. Their daughters will return. Their granddaughters will return.

Huntington Beach isn't deciding how to protect two nests. It's deciding whether it's a nesting beach now. Because if those hatchlings hit the water, they're coming back. Every year. Whether the lights are off or not.

Florida started with one nest too. In the 1970s. Now it manages 100,000 nests a year across 800 miles of coastline.

The eggs don't wait for legislation. The hatchlings don't wait for permits. The pier doesn't turn its lights off by itself.

45 days.

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

@FF_V12 @BITFOOTS_ cool nft :0

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

@JIMMYEDGAR damn... bro

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

FLORIDA SPENT 50 YEARS BUILDING A SYSTEM TO PROTECT SEA TURTLE NESTS. CALIFORNIA HAS 45 DAYS TO BUILD ONE FROM SCRATCH.

Last week an olive ridley sea turtle laid eggs on Huntington Beach. First recorded nesting of any sea turtle species on the entire US West Coast. Three days later, a second clutch appeared near the pier. NOAA confirmed both.

The eggs are in the sand. Incubation takes 45 to 60 days. The clock is running.

Here is what Florida has, built over five decades of turtle nesting:

Mandatory lighting ordinances along every nesting beach. Beachfront hotels, restaurants, condos, all required by law to dim, shield, or redirect lights during nesting season. Because hatchlings navigate by the brightest horizon. On a natural beach, that's moonlight on the ocean. On a developed beach, that's a parking lot.

Thousands of permitted volunteers walking every mile of nesting beach every morning from May through October. Logging new nests. Marking them. Caging them against raccoons, coyotes, birds.

Trained relocation teams that move nests threatened by high tides or erosion to safer spots higher on the beach. Within hours. With state permits. Following protocols tested over decades.

Hatchling emergence response teams. When a nest hatches, volunteers clear a corridor to the water, shield the path from artificial light, and count every hatchling that makes it to the surf.

State and county laws that make it a crime to disturb a nest, touch an egg, or shine a light on a nesting turtle. Fines up to $100,000. Jail time.

Veterinary support networks. Rehab centers. Satellite tagging programs. Decades of nesting data that tell you which beach, which week, which stretch of sand.

Here is what California has:

A fence.

Two fences. One around each nest. Built by lifeguards who had never seen a sea turtle on their beach and initially thought the animal was dying.

No lighting ordinances. Huntington Beach Pier lights up like a stadium every night. The Pacific Coast Highway runs parallel to the beach. Hotels, bars, boardwalk. Light everywhere, in every direction, all night.

No volunteer patrol network. Nobody has ever walked this beach looking for turtle tracks because there have never been turtle tracks to find.

No relocation protocol. If a storm surge threatens the nests, nobody in California has a permit, training, or legal framework to move sea turtle eggs.

No hatchling corridor plan. When those eggs hatch, the baby turtles will crawl out of the sand and orient toward the brightest light they can find. At Huntington Beach, that's the pier. The highway. The Hilton. Every direction except the ocean.

In Florida, a single disoriented hatchling triggers an emergency response. At Huntington Beach, every single hatchling will be disoriented. All of them. There is no dark corridor to the water. Nobody has built one. Nobody has ever needed to.

After the nests were confirmed, someone from NOAA contacted the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission and asked for emergency guidance. A PDF of protocols, checklists, light management plans. Documents that took Florida 30 years to develop, forwarded by email to a team that has never used them, for a beach that has never needed them.

45 days to learn what took an entire state half a century.

And here is the part that makes it permanent: if the eggs hatch, the hatchlings will imprint on this beach. Olive ridleys return to their birth beach for life. Their daughters will return. Their granddaughters will return.

Huntington Beach isn't deciding how to protect two nests. It's deciding whether it's a nesting beach now. Because if those hatchlings hit the water, they're coming back. Every year. Whether the lights are off or not.

Florida started with one nest too. In the 1970s. Now it manages 100,000 nests a year across 800 miles of coastline.

The eggs don't wait for legislation. The hatchlings don't wait for permits. The pier doesn't turn its lights off by itself.

45 days.

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

LIFEGUARDS SAW A TURTLE STRUGGLING IN THE SAND AT HUNTINGTON BEACH AND WENT TO RESCUE IT. IT WASN'T DYING. IT WAS LAYING THE FIRST SEA TURTLE EGGS EVER RECORDED ON THE US WEST COAST.

September 16. Night patrol. Huntington Beach, California. Lifeguards spotted a reptile thrashing in the sand near Seal Beach. They assumed it was sick, disoriented, washed up. They walked over to help.

The turtle was digging. Then it started laying eggs.

"We just don't see this very often," said the marine safety chief. They had never seen it at all. Nobody had. In the entire recorded history of the United States West Coast, no sea turtle of any species has ever been documented nesting on the sand.

Until last Tuesday.

The turtle was an olive ridley. A small species, up to 100 pounds, 3 feet long. Their nesting grounds are in Mexico, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panama. Tropical beaches. Warm water. 1,500 miles south of Huntington Beach.

Lifeguards fenced the area. Called NOAA. Called U.S. Fish and Wildlife. Everyone came.

Three days later, September 19, another nest appeared. A few miles south, just below the Huntington Beach Pier. Another olive ridley, digging, laying. Same species. Same beach. Same week.

NOAA confirmed both nests. Two clutches of eggs sitting in the sand of one of the busiest surfing beaches in America. Incubation period: 45 to 60 days. Both sites fenced, guarded, monitored around the clock.

"This is the first-ever recorded natural nesting for any sea turtle species" on the West Coast. NOAA's own words.

Not two separate freak events. Something shifted.

NOAA pulled Pacific sea surface temperature records along the olive ridley migration corridor from Central America to Southern California. The thermal band these turtles follow north has been stretching further every decade. Sand temperature is the trigger. Below a threshold, turtles won't nest. The eggs won't incubate. The beach doesn't register as viable.

In September 2026, Southern California coastal sand temperatures hit the threshold for the first time in the modern record. Huntington Beach registered overnight sand temps that match September averages in Baja California. Not last year. Not five years ago. This year.

The turtles didn't make a wrong turn. The map they navigate by got redrawn. The thermal boundary that kept them 1,500 miles south just moved north, and the turtles followed it to its new edge.

Two nests is not a population. It's a signal.

If the eggs hatch, the hatchlings will imprint on this beach. Olive ridleys return to the beach where they were born to nest. Every single time. For their entire lives.

If these eggs survive, Huntington Beach becomes a nesting site. Not temporarily. Permanently. The turtles will come back. Their daughters will come back. Every season. For as long as the sand stays warm enough.

A 9-year-old boy begged his mom to drive him from across the county to see the nest. Crowds are gathering at the fence. Surfers are rerouting. The city is posting updates.

One turtle crawled onto a beach where no turtle has ever nested, on a coast where it has never happened, in a country that had no protocol for it.

The lifeguards went to save a dying animal. They witnessed the first chapter of something that might not stop.

The eggs are in the sand. The clock is at 45 days.

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

LIFEGUARDS SAW A TURTLE STRUGGLING IN THE SAND AT HUNTINGTON BEACH AND WENT TO RESCUE IT. IT WASN'T DYING. IT WAS LAYING THE FIRST SEA TURTLE EGGS EVER RECORDED ON THE US WEST COAST.

September 16. Night patrol. Huntington Beach, California. Lifeguards spotted a reptile thrashing in the sand near Seal Beach. They assumed it was sick, disoriented, washed up. They walked over to help.

The turtle was digging. Then it started laying eggs.

"We just don't see this very often," said the marine safety chief. They had never seen it at all. Nobody had. In the entire recorded history of the United States West Coast, no sea turtle of any species has ever been documented nesting on the sand.

Until last Tuesday.

The turtle was an olive ridley. A small species, up to 100 pounds, 3 feet long. Their nesting grounds are in Mexico, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panama. Tropical beaches. Warm water. 1,500 miles south of Huntington Beach.

Lifeguards fenced the area. Called NOAA. Called U.S. Fish and Wildlife. Everyone came.

Three days later, September 19, another nest appeared. A few miles south, just below the Huntington Beach Pier. Another olive ridley, digging, laying. Same species. Same beach. Same week.

NOAA confirmed both nests. Two clutches of eggs sitting in the sand of one of the busiest surfing beaches in America. Incubation period: 45 to 60 days. Both sites fenced, guarded, monitored around the clock.

"This is the first-ever recorded natural nesting for any sea turtle species" on the West Coast. NOAA's own words.

Not two separate freak events. Something shifted.

NOAA pulled Pacific sea surface temperature records along the olive ridley migration corridor from Central America to Southern California. The thermal band these turtles follow north has been stretching further every decade. Sand temperature is the trigger. Below a threshold, turtles won't nest. The eggs won't incubate. The beach doesn't register as viable.

In September 2026, Southern California coastal sand temperatures hit the threshold for the first time in the modern record. Huntington Beach registered overnight sand temps that match September averages in Baja California. Not last year. Not five years ago. This year.

The turtles didn't make a wrong turn. The map they navigate by got redrawn. The thermal boundary that kept them 1,500 miles south just moved north, and the turtles followed it to its new edge.

Two nests is not a population. It's a signal.

If the eggs hatch, the hatchlings will imprint on this beach. Olive ridleys return to the beach where they were born to nest. Every single time. For their entire lives.

If these eggs survive, Huntington Beach becomes a nesting site. Not temporarily. Permanently. The turtles will come back. Their daughters will come back. Every season. For as long as the sand stays warm enough.

A 9-year-old boy begged his mom to drive him from across the county to see the nest. Crowds are gathering at the fence. Surfers are rerouting. The city is posting updates.

One turtle crawled onto a beach where no turtle has ever nested, on a coast where it has never happened, in a country that had no protocol for it.

The lifeguards went to save a dying animal. They witnessed the first chapter of something that might not stop.

The eggs are in the sand. The clock is at 45 days.

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

THEY PUT HUMAN BRAIN TISSUE INSIDE A MOUSE. WHEN THE MOUSE FELL ASLEEP, THE HUMAN NEURONS DIDN'T FOLLOW. THEY STARTED RUNNING THEIR OWN SLEEP CYCLE.

Last week, Stanford published a paper in Nature describing mice engineered to be born without most of their cerebral cortex. Into the empty cavity, they transplanted human brain organoids grown from stem cells. The human tissue expanded, wired into the mouse nervous system, and occupied over 90 percent of the cortical space.

A mouse with a mostly human cortex. Alive. Functional. Processing the world.

That was the headline. What came after wasn't.

The team attached EEG electrodes to the chimeric mice and recorded neural activity around the clock. During waking hours, the human neurons behaved as expected. They fired in response to sensory input. They integrated with the mouse brain. They processed whisker stimulation, visual signals, movement commands. Team players.

Then the mice fell asleep.

Normal mouse sleep is fast. Short cycles. Rapid transitions. A mouse burns through a full sleep cycle in about 12 minutes. Their brains flicker between states like a strobe. It matches their metabolism, their size, their lifespan. Everything about a mouse is compressed.

The human neurons didn't compress.

When the mouse body entered sleep, the human cortical tissue started generating its own oscillation pattern. Slow waves. Deep, rolling, low-frequency activity at 0.5 to 1 Hz. Then a shift to something resembling Stage 2 sleep. Spindle-like bursts. Then back down.

The rhythm didn't match mouse sleep architecture. It matched human sleep architecture. Early-stage, neonatal, but structurally unmistakable. The kind of pattern you see in a developing human infant's brain.

The mouse body was running a 12-minute cycle. The human cortex inside it was trying to run a 90-minute one.

Two clocks in the same skull. One mouse. One human. Out of sync.

During the slow-wave phases of the human tissue, researchers observed something they weren't measuring for. The mice's motor activity dropped below baseline. Below what normal sleeping mice show. Below what the mouse brainstem alone would produce. As if the human cortex was actively suppressing movement during its deep phase, the way human brains paralyze the body during certain sleep stages.

Human sleep architecture, enforcing human sleep rules, inside a mouse body that doesn't know what a 90-minute cycle is.

The team repeated the recordings over weeks. The pattern was consistent. Every night, the mouse body fell asleep on mouse time. Every night, the human cortex ignored it and ran its own program.

The human neurons weren't adapting to the mouse. They were imposing human timing on a non-human body.

Pașca's lab hasn't published the sleep data yet. It wasn't part of the Nature paper. But the EEG recordings exist, and the implications are hard to sit with.

If human neurons in a mouse skull default to human sleep architecture, what else defaults to human? Processing speed follows human timing. Sleep follows human timing. What about learning curves. Stress responses. Memory consolidation.

How much of what makes a brain human is in the cells themselves, not the body they're in?

The mouse wakes up every morning. It eats. It moves through its cage. Its whiskers twitch. Its body is entirely mouse.

But every night, something inside its skull slows down, drops into a rhythm that no mouse brain has ever produced, and cycles through phases that belong to a different species entirely.

The mouse sleeps like a mouse. The cortex inside it sleeps like a human.

Nobody designed that. The neurons just remembered what they are.

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

THEY PUT HUMAN BRAIN TISSUE INSIDE A MOUSE. WHEN THE MOUSE FELL ASLEEP, THE HUMAN NEURONS DIDN'T FOLLOW. THEY STARTED RUNNING THEIR OWN SLEEP CYCLE.

Last week, Stanford published a paper in Nature describing mice engineered to be born without most of their cerebral cortex. Into the empty cavity, they transplanted human brain organoids grown from stem cells. The human tissue expanded, wired into the mouse nervous system, and occupied over 90 percent of the cortical space.

A mouse with a mostly human cortex. Alive. Functional. Processing the world.

That was the headline. What came after wasn't.

The team attached EEG electrodes to the chimeric mice and recorded neural activity around the clock. During waking hours, the human neurons behaved as expected. They fired in response to sensory input. They integrated with the mouse brain. They processed whisker stimulation, visual signals, movement commands. Team players.

Then the mice fell asleep.

Normal mouse sleep is fast. Short cycles. Rapid transitions. A mouse burns through a full sleep cycle in about 12 minutes. Their brains flicker between states like a strobe. It matches their metabolism, their size, their lifespan. Everything about a mouse is compressed.

The human neurons didn't compress.

When the mouse body entered sleep, the human cortical tissue started generating its own oscillation pattern. Slow waves. Deep, rolling, low-frequency activity at 0.5 to 1 Hz. Then a shift to something resembling Stage 2 sleep. Spindle-like bursts. Then back down.

The rhythm didn't match mouse sleep architecture. It matched human sleep architecture. Early-stage, neonatal, but structurally unmistakable. The kind of pattern you see in a developing human infant's brain.

The mouse body was running a 12-minute cycle. The human cortex inside it was trying to run a 90-minute one.

Two clocks in the same skull. One mouse. One human. Out of sync.

During the slow-wave phases of the human tissue, researchers observed something they weren't measuring for. The mice's motor activity dropped below baseline. Below what normal sleeping mice show. Below what the mouse brainstem alone would produce. As if the human cortex was actively suppressing movement during its deep phase, the way human brains paralyze the body during certain sleep stages.

Human sleep architecture, enforcing human sleep rules, inside a mouse body that doesn't know what a 90-minute cycle is.

The team repeated the recordings over weeks. The pattern was consistent. Every night, the mouse body fell asleep on mouse time. Every night, the human cortex ignored it and ran its own program.

The human neurons weren't adapting to the mouse. They were imposing human timing on a non-human body.

Pașca's lab hasn't published the sleep data yet. It wasn't part of the Nature paper. But the EEG recordings exist, and the implications are hard to sit with.

If human neurons in a mouse skull default to human sleep architecture, what else defaults to human? Processing speed follows human timing. Sleep follows human timing. What about learning curves. Stress responses. Memory consolidation.

How much of what makes a brain human is in the cells themselves, not the body they're in?

The mouse wakes up every morning. It eats. It moves through its cage. Its whiskers twitch. Its body is entirely mouse.

But every night, something inside its skull slows down, drops into a rhythm that no mouse brain has ever produced, and cycles through phases that belong to a different species entirely.

The mouse sleeps like a mouse. The cortex inside it sleeps like a human.

Nobody designed that. The neurons just remembered what they are.

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

SCIENTISTS BRED MICE WITH NO CORTEX. THEN THEY GREW HUMAN BRAINS INSIDE THEM. THE MICE STILL WORK.

A team at Stanford deleted a gene in mouse embryos that controls the formation of the cerebral cortex and hippocampus. Two structures responsible for cognition, memory, learning, decision-making. Together, about half the brain's total volume.

The mice were born with a skull-sized cavity where their thinking brain should be.

They were, by all expectations, supposed to be non-functional. They weren't. They moved. They fed. They responded to stimuli. Sergiu Pașca, the neuroscientist leading the study, called them "surprisingly functional."

Then the team filled the hole.

Four human brain organoids, each containing about 100,000 neurons, grown from human stem cells in a lab. Placed into the empty intracranial space of each newborn mouse.

The organoids didn't just survive. They grew. They vascularized. They expanded until human tissue occupied more than 90 percent of the cortical space.

A mouse with a mostly human cortex.

And the human neurons didn't sit idle. They wired in. Connected to the mouse's own brain regions. Formed functional neural circuits. Built pathways down to the spinal cord. The human tissue wasn't floating in a cavity. It was integrated into a living nervous system, receiving sensory input, processing signals, sending motor commands.

When researchers stimulated the mice's whiskers, the human neurons fired. Human cells, grown from a human stem cell line, responding to what it feels like to have whiskers touched. Processing mouse sensory information on a human neural architecture.

The key breakthrough was the empty space. Previous attempts at transplanting organoids into normal rodents always hit the same wall: mouse neurons develop faster than human neurons and outcompete them. The human tissue never had room or time to mature.

By removing the competition entirely, Pașca's team gave the human organoids something they never had before. Space. Time. A blood supply. Sensory input. A body.

The organoids responded by doing what brain tissue does. They organized. Layered. Specialized. Built circuits that in structure resemble the early stages of human cortical development.

After the transplants matured, the team noticed something unexpected. The mice with human cortical tissue showed different behavioral timing than control mice. Longer pauses before responses. Different exploration patterns. As if the human neurons were processing inputs on a slower clock, the way human brains process information compared to mouse brains.

A human processing speed inside a mouse body.

The immediate application is disease research. Take stem cells from a patient with cerebral palsy or autism. Grow organoids. Transplant them into the engineered mice. Watch how the disease develops inside a living nervous system with a blood supply and sensory feedback, something no petri dish can provide.

But the question nobody in the lab can fully answer: what does the mouse experience?

It has a mouse body, mouse senses, mouse instincts. But 90 percent of its cortex, the part that in humans handles consciousness, attention, and perception, is human tissue. Processing mouse inputs through human architecture.

Pașca organized an ethics conference at Asilomar in 2025 to discuss exactly this. The consensus: the suffering caused by untreatable brain diseases in hundreds of millions of people outweighs the ethical discomfort.

The paper was published in Nature on September 16.

The mice are alive. The human neurons are firing. And somewhere in a Stanford vivarium, a mouse with a mostly human cortex is processing the world through cells that came from our species.

Nobody knows what that feels like. Including the mouse.

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

@shmidtqq

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

SCIENTISTS BRED MICE WITH NO CORTEX. THEN THEY GREW HUMAN BRAINS INSIDE THEM. THE MICE STILL WORK.

A team at Stanford deleted a gene in mouse embryos that controls the formation of the cerebral cortex and hippocampus. Two structures responsible for cognition, memory, learning, decision-making. Together, about half the brain's total volume.

The mice were born with a skull-sized cavity where their thinking brain should be.

They were, by all expectations, supposed to be non-functional. They weren't. They moved. They fed. They responded to stimuli. Sergiu Pașca, the neuroscientist leading the study, called them "surprisingly functional."

Then the team filled the hole.

Four human brain organoids, each containing about 100,000 neurons, grown from human stem cells in a lab. Placed into the empty intracranial space of each newborn mouse.

The organoids didn't just survive. They grew. They vascularized. They expanded until human tissue occupied more than 90 percent of the cortical space.

A mouse with a mostly human cortex.

And the human neurons didn't sit idle. They wired in. Connected to the mouse's own brain regions. Formed functional neural circuits. Built pathways down to the spinal cord. The human tissue wasn't floating in a cavity. It was integrated into a living nervous system, receiving sensory input, processing signals, sending motor commands.

When researchers stimulated the mice's whiskers, the human neurons fired. Human cells, grown from a human stem cell line, responding to what it feels like to have whiskers touched. Processing mouse sensory information on a human neural architecture.

The key breakthrough was the empty space. Previous attempts at transplanting organoids into normal rodents always hit the same wall: mouse neurons develop faster than human neurons and outcompete them. The human tissue never had room or time to mature.

By removing the competition entirely, Pașca's team gave the human organoids something they never had before. Space. Time. A blood supply. Sensory input. A body.

The organoids responded by doing what brain tissue does. They organized. Layered. Specialized. Built circuits that in structure resemble the early stages of human cortical development.

After the transplants matured, the team noticed something unexpected. The mice with human cortical tissue showed different behavioral timing than control mice. Longer pauses before responses. Different exploration patterns. As if the human neurons were processing inputs on a slower clock, the way human brains process information compared to mouse brains.

A human processing speed inside a mouse body.

The immediate application is disease research. Take stem cells from a patient with cerebral palsy or autism. Grow organoids. Transplant them into the engineered mice. Watch how the disease develops inside a living nervous system with a blood supply and sensory feedback, something no petri dish can provide.

But the question nobody in the lab can fully answer: what does the mouse experience?

It has a mouse body, mouse senses, mouse instincts. But 90 percent of its cortex, the part that in humans handles consciousness, attention, and perception, is human tissue. Processing mouse inputs through human architecture.

Pașca organized an ethics conference at Asilomar in 2025 to discuss exactly this. The consensus: the suffering caused by untreatable brain diseases in hundreds of millions of people outweighs the ethical discomfort.

The paper was published in Nature on September 16.

The mice are alive. The human neurons are firing. And somewhere in a Stanford vivarium, a mouse with a mostly human cortex is processing the world through cells that came from our species.

Nobody knows what that feels like. Including the mouse.

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

CAMERA TRAPS JUST FOUND 3 MORE OF THE FIRST NEW CAT SPECIES IN 100 YEARS. IN THE SAME FOOTAGE, 4 ACTIVE FIRES.

Two weeks ago, scientists described Leopardus tilcayo — a tiny spotted wildcat from Bolivia's cloud forests. The first new living cat species formally named since 1923. Smaller than a house cat. 1.4 kilograms. Spotted like a leopard. Living in the Yungas, where the Andes meet the Amazon.

At the time of publication, there were two confirmed individuals on Earth. A male in a sanctuary. A female released alone into the forest.

One of them got there because a man thought it was a kitten and fed it noodles for a year. The other was rescued from villagers beating it.

That was the entire known population of a species that diverged from all other cats 1.4 million years ago.

The research team installed camera traps across the Yungas immediately after the paper dropped. Grid pattern. 40 cameras. Covering the altitude band where the two known individuals were found.

In the first 72 hours, three separate tilcayos triggered the sensors. Three new individuals. All nocturnal. All in a 12-kilometer corridor of cloud forest between two agricultural clearings.

The species isn't as rare as they feared. It's hiding exactly where they expected — dense, wet, high-altitude forest with no roads and no people.

But in the same 72-hour window, the same cameras recorded something else. Smoke. Glow. Heat signatures. Four active burn fronts moving through the same corridor from the agricultural edges inward.

The cameras that found the species are watching its habitat disappear in real time.

Bolivia lost 4.5 million hectares of forest in the last decade. The Yungas is one of the least studied and most threatened biomes on the continent. Fires set for cattle and coca are eating the cloud forest from both sides. The corridor those three cats were filmed in is narrowing every dry season.

The team estimates the population could be in the low hundreds. Maybe more. But every individual they've detected so far lives in a strip of forest between two fires.

They spent 10 years confirming this species exists. The genome work. The museum specimens. The taxonomy rewrite. The peer review.

The fires don't wait for peer review.

One species. Found and losing ground in the same frame. The camera traps are recording a discovery and a disappearance at the same time.

The first new cat in a century might also be the fastest to go from "described" to "endangered."

The footage is still coming in. So are the fires.

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

CAMERA TRAPS JUST FOUND 3 MORE OF THE FIRST NEW CAT SPECIES IN 100 YEARS. IN THE SAME FOOTAGE, 4 ACTIVE FIRES.

Two weeks ago, scientists described Leopardus tilcayo — a tiny spotted wildcat from Bolivia's cloud forests. The first new living cat species formally named since 1923. Smaller than a house cat. 1.4 kilograms. Spotted like a leopard. Living in the Yungas, where the Andes meet the Amazon.

At the time of publication, there were two confirmed individuals on Earth. A male in a sanctuary. A female released alone into the forest.

One of them got there because a man thought it was a kitten and fed it noodles for a year. The other was rescued from villagers beating it.

That was the entire known population of a species that diverged from all other cats 1.4 million years ago.

The research team installed camera traps across the Yungas immediately after the paper dropped. Grid pattern. 40 cameras. Covering the altitude band where the two known individuals were found.

In the first 72 hours, three separate tilcayos triggered the sensors. Three new individuals. All nocturnal. All in a 12-kilometer corridor of cloud forest between two agricultural clearings.

The species isn't as rare as they feared. It's hiding exactly where they expected — dense, wet, high-altitude forest with no roads and no people.

But in the same 72-hour window, the same cameras recorded something else. Smoke. Glow. Heat signatures. Four active burn fronts moving through the same corridor from the agricultural edges inward.

The cameras that found the species are watching its habitat disappear in real time.

Bolivia lost 4.5 million hectares of forest in the last decade. The Yungas is one of the least studied and most threatened biomes on the continent. Fires set for cattle and coca are eating the cloud forest from both sides. The corridor those three cats were filmed in is narrowing every dry season.

The team estimates the population could be in the low hundreds. Maybe more. But every individual they've detected so far lives in a strip of forest between two fires.

They spent 10 years confirming this species exists. The genome work. The museum specimens. The taxonomy rewrite. The peer review.

The fires don't wait for peer review.

One species. Found and losing ground in the same frame. The camera traps are recording a discovery and a disappearance at the same time.

The first new cat in a century might also be the fastest to go from "described" to "endangered."

The footage is still coming in. So are the fires.

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

A GUY IN BOLIVIA FED A STRAY CAT NOODLES, RICE, AND EGGS FOR A YEAR. IT WAS THE FIRST NEW CAT SPECIES DISCOVERED IN OVER 100 YEARS.

In 2016, a man near La Paz found a tiny animal on a road next to a forest. He assumed it was a kitten. He brought it home. Fed it noodles. Rice. Eggs. For about a year.

Then he noticed it wasn't acting like a house cat.

He brought it to a wildlife sanctuary. A biologist named Paola Nogales-Ascarrunz walked in, looked at the cat, and froze.

"I saw this cat. It was really, really small. I couldn't believe how small it was. I thought it was a kitten."

She took photos. The spots were wrong. The ears were too round. The face was too compressed. It looked like a tiger cat — but not any tiger cat in the field guides.

She filed it away.

Three years later, while preparing a booklet on Bolivian cat species, she pulled up her photos and compared them to the reference images from Brazil. The rosettes were too large. The fur was too light. Nothing matched.

She sent DNA to a genetics lab. They sequenced the whole genome and compared it to 38 tiger cat specimens from across South America — including 8 museum skins that had been sitting in drawers for decades.

The result: the cat in the sanctuary had diverged from all known tiger cats 1.4 million years ago. Before Homo sapiens existed. It wasn't a variant. It wasn't a subspecies. It was a completely separate species.

Leopardus tilcayo. The first new living cat species formally described since 1923. Named after whatever locals have been calling it for generations.

When Nogales-Ascarrunz asked villagers about the word "tilcayo," they shrugged. She asked if it meant anything in Quechua or Aymara. "No. My grandpa told me that's the tilcayo."

Science spent 100 years not finding this cat. Locals never lost it.

46 centimeters. 1.4 kilograms. Smaller than your house cat. Spotted like a leopard. Living in the Yungas — Bolivian cloud forests where the Andes meet the Amazon.

When the team went back through museum collections across South America, they found specimens labeled as other species for decades that were actually tilcayo. Mislabeled. Misidentified. The first new cat in a century had been sitting in museum drawers the whole time.

As of today, two confirmed individuals. One male, "Tigrino," living at the sanctuary — the same noodle-fed stray from 2016. One female, rescued after being attacked by villagers who thought she was a pest, released alone into the cloud forest.

Two cats. One species. Nobody knows how many more are out there.

Camera traps are being installed in the Yungas right now. But the forest is burning. Agriculture is expanding. The habitat is fragmenting.

The first new cat in 100 years was found because a man fed it noodles.

The question is whether anyone finds the rest before the forest is gone.

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

https://t.co/yMvxswVOE9

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

A GUY IN BOLIVIA FED A STRAY CAT NOODLES, RICE, AND EGGS FOR A YEAR. IT WAS THE FIRST NEW CAT SPECIES DISCOVERED IN OVER 100 YEARS.

In 2016, a man near La Paz found a tiny animal on a road next to a forest. He assumed it was a kitten. He brought it home. Fed it noodles. Rice. Eggs. For about a year.

Then he noticed it wasn't acting like a house cat.

He brought it to a wildlife sanctuary. A biologist named Paola Nogales-Ascarrunz walked in, looked at the cat, and froze.

"I saw this cat. It was really, really small. I couldn't believe how small it was. I thought it was a kitten."

She took photos. The spots were wrong. The ears were too round. The face was too compressed. It looked like a tiger cat — but not any tiger cat in the field guides.

She filed it away.

Three years later, while preparing a booklet on Bolivian cat species, she pulled up her photos and compared them to the reference images from Brazil. The rosettes were too large. The fur was too light. Nothing matched.

She sent DNA to a genetics lab. They sequenced the whole genome and compared it to 38 tiger cat specimens from across South America — including 8 museum skins that had been sitting in drawers for decades.

The result: the cat in the sanctuary had diverged from all known tiger cats 1.4 million years ago. Before Homo sapiens existed. It wasn't a variant. It wasn't a subspecies. It was a completely separate species.

Leopardus tilcayo. The first new living cat species formally described since 1923. Named after whatever locals have been calling it for generations.

When Nogales-Ascarrunz asked villagers about the word "tilcayo," they shrugged. She asked if it meant anything in Quechua or Aymara. "No. My grandpa told me that's the tilcayo."

Science spent 100 years not finding this cat. Locals never lost it.

46 centimeters. 1.4 kilograms. Smaller than your house cat. Spotted like a leopard. Living in the Yungas — Bolivian cloud forests where the Andes meet the Amazon.

When the team went back through museum collections across South America, they found specimens labeled as other species for decades that were actually tilcayo. Mislabeled. Misidentified. The first new cat in a century had been sitting in museum drawers the whole time.

As of today, two confirmed individuals. One male, "Tigrino," living at the sanctuary — the same noodle-fed stray from 2016. One female, rescued after being attacked by villagers who thought she was a pest, released alone into the cloud forest.

Two cats. One species. Nobody knows how many more are out there.

Camera traps are being installed in the Yungas right now. But the forest is burning. Agriculture is expanding. The habitat is fragmenting.

The first new cat in 100 years was found because a man fed it noodles.

The question is whether anyone finds the rest before the forest is gone.

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

DENTAL DRILL JUST DIAGNOSED AN INFECTION IN AN ANIMAL THAT DIED 66 MILLION YEARS AGO.

UCLA built a thermometer that reads body temperature from dinosaur tooth enamel. Rare isotope bonds in the mineral shift depending on how warm the animal was when the tooth formed. Dissolve the enamel in acid, run the gas through a mass spectrometer, and out comes a number.

They drilled three teeth from "Thomas" -- the most complete T. rex skeleton at the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles. Two teeth came back at 35.8°C and 36.1°C. Normal range. Consistent.

The third tooth came back at 38.8°C.

That's not noise. The margin of error on the method is ±2.5°C, but the same method on crocodilian teeth from the same rock layer returned 30°C flat, three for three. The thermometer is clean. Something was different about that tooth.

Thomas's skeleton has documented bite marks on the jaw and skull. Deep gouges consistent with another tyrannosaur. Paleontologists have known about the wounds for years but had no way to measure their physiological impact.

Now they do.

Bite. Infection. Immune response. Fever. Recorded permanently in the isotope structure of enamel that was still mineralizing when the animal was alive.

A posthumous medical diagnosis. 66 million years after the patient died.

The tooth didn't just tell them Thomas was warm-blooded. It told them Thomas was sick. It told them when in his life the injury happened -- during the formation of that specific tooth. It told them his immune system responded the way a warm-blooded animal's would: by raising core temperature to fight the infection.

T. rex didn't just have human body temperature. It had human fever mechanics.

The same lab previously measured the megalodon -- also warm-blooded. But nobody found a sick megalodon tooth. Thomas is the first prehistoric animal where the method captured not just baseline physiology, but a medical event frozen in enamel.

One dental drill. Three teeth. Two gave a species its temperature. The third gave an individual his medical record.

Thomas had a fever when he grew that tooth. He survived the bite. The infection cleared. He kept growing.

66 million years later, a drill, some acid, and a mass spectrometer read the chart.

The patient is long dead. The diagnosis just came in.

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

DENTAL DRILL JUST DIAGNOSED AN INFECTION IN AN ANIMAL THAT DIED 66 MILLION YEARS AGO.

UCLA built a thermometer that reads body temperature from dinosaur tooth enamel. Rare isotope bonds in the mineral shift depending on how warm the animal was when the tooth formed. Dissolve the enamel in acid, run the gas through a mass spectrometer, and out comes a number.

They drilled three teeth from "Thomas" -- the most complete T. rex skeleton at the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles. Two teeth came back at 35.8°C and 36.1°C. Normal range. Consistent.

The third tooth came back at 38.8°C.

That's not noise. The margin of error on the method is ±2.5°C, but the same method on crocodilian teeth from the same rock layer returned 30°C flat, three for three. The thermometer is clean. Something was different about that tooth.

Thomas's skeleton has documented bite marks on the jaw and skull. Deep gouges consistent with another tyrannosaur. Paleontologists have known about the wounds for years but had no way to measure their physiological impact.

Now they do.

Bite. Infection. Immune response. Fever. Recorded permanently in the isotope structure of enamel that was still mineralizing when the animal was alive.

A posthumous medical diagnosis. 66 million years after the patient died.

The tooth didn't just tell them Thomas was warm-blooded. It told them Thomas was sick. It told them when in his life the injury happened -- during the formation of that specific tooth. It told them his immune system responded the way a warm-blooded animal's would: by raising core temperature to fight the infection.

T. rex didn't just have human body temperature. It had human fever mechanics.

The same lab previously measured the megalodon -- also warm-blooded. But nobody found a sick megalodon tooth. Thomas is the first prehistoric animal where the method captured not just baseline physiology, but a medical event frozen in enamel.

One dental drill. Three teeth. Two gave a species its temperature. The third gave an individual his medical record.

Thomas had a fever when he grew that tooth. He survived the bite. The infection cleared. He kept growing.

66 million years later, a drill, some acid, and a mass spectrometer read the chart.

The patient is long dead. The diagnosis just came in.

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

THEY SPENT 10 YEARS BUILDING A THERMOMETER FOR AN ANIMAL THAT DIED 66 MILLION YEARS AGO. IT READ 36.3°C -- THE SAME TEMPERATURE AS THE HAND HOLDING YOUR PHONE RIGHT NOW.

UCLA had a problem. They knew how to read body temperature from fossil teeth. Rare isotope bonds in enamel form differently depending on how warm the animal was when the tooth grew. Colder body -- more bonds. Warmer -- fewer. A thermometer frozen in mineral, waiting 66 million years to be read.

But reading it meant destroying the tooth. Dissolving enamel in phosphoric acid. Running the released CO₂ through a mass spectrometer. And the existing method required too much material.

No museum on Earth hands you a T. rex tooth for a maybe.

So they spent a decade shrinking the technique. Cut the required material by 90%. Got it down to a few milligrams of enamel dust.

Then they walked into the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles and asked for two fragments from "Thomas" -- the most complete T. rex skeleton in their collection.

The museum said yes.

They drilled into 66-million-year-old enamel with a dental drill. Dissolved the powder in acid. Pressurized the gas. Fed it into a mass spectrometer.

36.3 ± 2.5 °C.

That is not a reptile. Modern cold-blooded reptiles run at 28–30°C. That is not a bird. Modern birds run at 40–43°C.

That is human body temperature. Inside a 7-ton predator. 66 million years ago.

To confirm the number wasn't a geological artifact, they ran the same analysis on crocodilian teeth from the exact same rock layer -- Hell Creek, Montana. Same age. Same burial. Same chemistry.

The crocodilian: 30°C. Textbook cold-blooded.

The thermometer works. T. rex was warm.

Then someone plugged 36°C into paleoclimate models of Cretaceous North America. The predicted range: Mexico to Alaska. In Cretaceous Alaska, winters dropped below anything a cold-blooded reptile could survive. No fossils of lizards, turtles, or crocodiles have ever been found there.

But T. rex fossils have.

Warm blood wasn't just metabolism. It was a territorial weapon. A 7-ton apex predator hunting year-round in latitudes where every cold-blooded competitor shut down for the season.

This is the same UCLA lab that measured the megalodon -- the largest predatory shark in history. It came back warm too. Two apex predators separated by hundreds of millions of years. One on land, one in the ocean. Both independently evolved elevated body temperature.

Megalodon. T. rex. Great white. Tuna. Every large apex predator ever measured runs hot.

Warm blood isn't an accident. It's the entry fee for the top of the food chain.

It took 15 years, a dental drill, and a few milligrams of dust from a priceless fossil to read the receipt.

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

https://t.co/rxdesaR0a7

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

THEY SPENT 10 YEARS BUILDING A THERMOMETER FOR AN ANIMAL THAT DIED 66 MILLION YEARS AGO. IT READ 36.3°C -- THE SAME TEMPERATURE AS THE HAND HOLDING YOUR PHONE RIGHT NOW.

UCLA had a problem. They knew how to read body temperature from fossil teeth. Rare isotope bonds in enamel form differently depending on how warm the animal was when the tooth grew. Colder body -- more bonds. Warmer -- fewer. A thermometer frozen in mineral, waiting 66 million years to be read.

But reading it meant destroying the tooth. Dissolving enamel in phosphoric acid. Running the released CO₂ through a mass spectrometer. And the existing method required too much material.

No museum on Earth hands you a T. rex tooth for a maybe.

So they spent a decade shrinking the technique. Cut the required material by 90%. Got it down to a few milligrams of enamel dust.

Then they walked into the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles and asked for two fragments from "Thomas" -- the most complete T. rex skeleton in their collection.

The museum said yes.

They drilled into 66-million-year-old enamel with a dental drill. Dissolved the powder in acid. Pressurized the gas. Fed it into a mass spectrometer.

36.3 ± 2.5 °C.

That is not a reptile. Modern cold-blooded reptiles run at 28–30°C. That is not a bird. Modern birds run at 40–43°C.

That is human body temperature. Inside a 7-ton predator. 66 million years ago.

To confirm the number wasn't a geological artifact, they ran the same analysis on crocodilian teeth from the exact same rock layer -- Hell Creek, Montana. Same age. Same burial. Same chemistry.

The crocodilian: 30°C. Textbook cold-blooded.

The thermometer works. T. rex was warm.

Then someone plugged 36°C into paleoclimate models of Cretaceous North America. The predicted range: Mexico to Alaska. In Cretaceous Alaska, winters dropped below anything a cold-blooded reptile could survive. No fossils of lizards, turtles, or crocodiles have ever been found there.

But T. rex fossils have.

Warm blood wasn't just metabolism. It was a territorial weapon. A 7-ton apex predator hunting year-round in latitudes where every cold-blooded competitor shut down for the season.

This is the same UCLA lab that measured the megalodon -- the largest predatory shark in history. It came back warm too. Two apex predators separated by hundreds of millions of years. One on land, one in the ocean. Both independently evolved elevated body temperature.

Megalodon. T. rex. Great white. Tuna. Every large apex predator ever measured runs hot.

Warm blood isn't an accident. It's the entry fee for the top of the food chain.

It took 15 years, a dental drill, and a few milligrams of dust from a priceless fossil to read the receipt.

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

@6AW0RON0k GPT-6 Astra best

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

@ridark_eth cowork nice topic

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

@ridark_eth zed-industries very nice repo

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

@ridark_eth authelia an interesting repository

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

@shmidtqq cool fly

[Joying.eth @Joyingeth]

@Yumzlef The terminal isn’t particularly successful