Led Desk Lamp

... for studying or reading. The lamp uses 640 full-spectrum LED beads with a 4000K neutral... visible hand shadows on the desk. The lamp includes AI-based brightness adjustment with ..., and screen modes. The Study Lamp 2 features a 90-degree rotatable head and covers a desk area of 1.2m x... high uniformity. Xiaomi designed the lamp for durability, promising up to ...

... Hanging Light is a revolutionary LED desk lamp designed to enhance your visual... light is not just a desk lamp—it’s a smart, versatile, and... is also a great AliExpress desk lamp that’s easy to move from ... looking for a good AliExpress led lamp that wouldn’t take up too ... choice. Available on AliExpress, this lamp is a top-selling AliExpress desk lamp that’s loved by users for ...

이케아 Desk lamp 팔아오 ! 오늘 구매했는데 제 책상에 안맞아서 바로 판매해요ㅜㅜ Desk lamp + LED rumen 까지 한번에 $15에 판매해요! 조립한 그대로 드릴께요 ~~~ ! ⭐️ 거래장소 : 다운타운 내 예일타운쪽 or 그랜빌 station

.... A path, previously nonexistent, now led into the foliage, as if... his skin, before a lamp illuminated a wooden desk. A pile of drawings...

LEDphile said: Given that the LED replacements for fluorescent are a ... lamps have been supplanted by LED for new installations for some ... that fluorescent looks better than LED than claim that incandescent looks ...better than LED. I didn't even know they ... was cheaper to get some LED fixtures, and then not even ... one I use in a desk lamp during winter, for that sweet, ...

... turned toward the door that led to the kitchen, needing to... dark, save for a single lamp in the living room. My..., she tossed it onto my desk. Then she pulled her t-shirt ...

I've been looking at lamps like these: Lumi 51cm (£113.23) https://elementgames.co.uk/seasonal3/lumi-51cm-intermediate-level-lighting-solution-black Red grass R9 £240 https://www.redgrasscreative.com/product/redgrass-r9-desk-lamp/ What i can get my head around is the prices they charge. A quick search for 'LED clamp lamps' on amazon returned items that are pretty identical to the branded lamps but under £20, some as low as under £10. Is this a mini-painting tax or is there something that the 'branded' versions offer that these others dont? submitted by /u/Hiraeth_08 to r/minipainting [link] [comments]

Check out this epic Venator-class Star Destroyer desk lamp, made to my daughter's very special order. It charges via USB and can be detached from its stand... Then it's fully compatible with "hand-held flight mode"! The base is white oak ebonized with iron acetate, the ship itself is mostly made of poplar, purpleheart and totora. The brass circles on the sides act as touch buttons. May the force be with you! submitted by /u/modern_kogaku to r/woodworking [link] [comments]

Hi everyone, I make handcrafted desk lamps in my personal workshop here in Delhi. 1. Arc Light Price : 999 INR (Starts at) Each lamp is: Individually built by hand (no factory pieces) Made using wood, brass wire, and Edison Style Warm LED Filaments Designed as a functional art object with brutalist design, something that looks good even when it’s OFF These are not mass-produced items. I make them in very small batches, so every piece is slightly unique. Use cases: Desk / study lamp Ambient night lighting Gifting (minimalist / industrial aesthetic) 📍 Location: Delhi 🚚 Delivery: Currently delivery are strictly in Delhi only via. Dunzo / Porter / courier (can discuss) If you’re interested, comment or DM — happy to answer questions or share more photos/videos. You can also place you order at https://bareconstruct.com/ Also, credit where it’s due — my early inspiration came from creators like HuyVector and other independent makers on YouTube who experiment with minimalist industrial lighting. This is my own interpretation and build process. Thanks for reading 🙏 submitted by /u/whoisali to r/delhi_marketplace [link] [comments]

It started six months ago. I was fresh out of grad school with a Master’s in History, a mountain of debt that gave me nightly anxiety attacks, and a resume that was getting ignored by every museum and university in a three-state radius. I was applying for everything: retail, data entry, barista. I was about two weeks from having to crawl back to my parents’ spare room when I saw the ad. It was discreet, posted on a high-end academic job board I’d forgotten I even had an account for. “Archival Associate. The Foundation. Discretion, precision, and an exceptional capacity for recall are paramount. No formal experience required. Generous compensation.” “Generous” was an understatement. The salary they listed was more than my parents make combined. I figured it was a typo, or a scam. But I was desperate, so I polished my CV and sent it in, not expecting to hear back. They called me the next day. The woman on the phone had a smooth voice but with a weight to it. She didn’t ask about my experience or my degree. She asked me a series of bizarre questions. “When you were ten, what was the pattern on the wallpaper in your grandmother’s kitchen?” “Describe the cover of the third book you see when you picture your childhood bookshelf.” “What was the name of the street sign you passed just before turning onto your current road this morning?” Luckily for me, my brain is just… sticky. Details cling to it, and I know for a fact that it’s a photographic, sensory thing. I can close my eyes and walk through my grandmother’s house, feel the cool linoleum under my feet, smell the potpourri she kept in a bowl on the sideboard. I answered her questions, and she said, “Please be at this address tomorrow at 9 AM sharp. Dress for an interview.” The address was a downtown monolith. A skyscraper with no name on the facade, just an elaborate, interlocking symbol above the heavy bronze doors that looked like a stylized knot. The lobby was a cavern of marble and silence. The air was cool and still, like a cathedral. A man in a simple, perfectly tailored grey suit met me and led me to an elevator, then up to a floor that had no button. He used a key. The interview was with a man I now know only as the Supervisor. He was ageless, with pale eyes that seemed to look right through me. He explained the job. It was simple, he said. Deceptively so. Each day, I would be given a single photograph. My task was to study that photograph from 9 AM to 5 PM. I was to absorb it. To commit every single detail to memory. The play of light, the grain of the image, the expressions on the faces, the stitching on a coat, the cracks in a sidewalk, the reflection in a window. “You will become the living record,” he said, his voice a low hum. “You will not write anything down. You will not make any copies. You will not discuss your work with anyone. At five o’clock, I will collect the photograph, and you will watch me incinerate it. The Foundation’s motto is ‘Quaedam optime memorandum.’ Some things are best remembered.” It was the strangest job I’d ever heard of. But the debt was on my chest, and the number on the contract he slid across the mahogany desk could change my entire life. I signed. My workspace was in a vast, circular room that felt like a panopticon. Dozens of identical wooden carrels were arranged in concentric rings, all facing a central pillar. Each carrel was a small, three-sided booth with a comfortable chair, a desk, and a single lamp. There were maybe thirty other people in the room, but the only sound was the soft rustle of clothing and the low, ever-present hum of the building’s climate control. No one spoke. No one even looked at each other. They were all just like me: head down, focused with an intensity that was almost unnerving. They had the same look I saw in the mirror every morning: a mixture of intelligence and quiet desperation. The first photograph was of a dusty, empty ballroom. Ornate, peeling plasterwork on the ceiling. A single chandelier, draped in cobwebs. Sunlight streamed through a grimy arched window, illuminating a universe of dancing dust motes. That was it. For eight hours, I just… looked. I memorized the way the shadows fell, the specific pattern of the water stains on the far wall, the number of crystal pendants missing from the chandelier (seventeen). At 5 PM, the Supervisor came, took the photo with a pair of tongs, and I followed him to a small, soundproofed room containing a sleek, modern furnace. He unlocked it, slid the photo inside, and pressed a button. A soft whir, a flash of orange light, and it was gone. He nodded at me, and I went home. The days fell into a rhythm. A new photo every morning. A wedding party from the 1920s, the bride’s smile just a little too tight. A grimy factory floor, men in flat caps staring grimly at a piece of machinery. A desolate stretch of highway at dusk, a single abandoned car with its door hanging open. A crowded market in a city I couldn’t place, faces blurred with motion except for one small child staring directly at the camera, their expression utterly blank. They were all unlabeled. No dates, no locations, no context. Just moments, frozen and silent. My colleagues remained phantoms. We’d nod sometimes, in the elevator or the sterile break room where we’d microwave our sad, solitary lunches. But we never spoke. It was a rule, and a powerful one. It was as if we were all part of some silent monastic order. I saw a woman who couldn't have been older than me, but her eyes had the haunted, distant look of a war veteran. An older man always rubbed his left temple, a constant, rhythmic motion, as he stared at his photos. We were all islands. The dreams started about a month in. At first, they were just echoes. I’d dream I was standing in the dusty ballroom, and I could smell the decay and the dry rot. I’d hear the faint, ghostly echo of a waltz. I woke up feeling unsettled but dismissed it. My job was to stare at images all day; of course they’d creep into my subconscious. But they got stronger. After a week spent memorizing a photo of a grim-faced family on a sagging porch in what looked like the Dust Bowl, I had a dream where I was the father. I could feel the rough, splintered wood of the porch railing under my hand, the grit of dust between my teeth, the gnawing, hopeless hunger in my stomach. I felt a desperate, protective love for the woman and children beside me, a love so fierce and painful it made my chest ache when I woke up. The day I studied a photo of a collapsed mine entrance, I spent the night dreaming of darkness. The oppressive weight of the earth above me, the taste of coal dust, the chilling, subterranean cold that seeps into your bones. I heard the shouts of other men, muffled and terrified, and the groan of shifting rock. I woke up gasping for air, my pajamas soaked in sweat, my throat raw from screams that had been trapped in my sleeping mind. This became the new normal. Every night, I was a tourist in someone else’s tragedy. I was a soldier in a trench, the mud sucking at my boots, the smell of cordite and fear thick in the air. I was a lone woman in a lighthouse, the storm winds howling around me like a hungry beast, the waves crashing against the stone with the force of cannonballs. I was a witness to car accidents, fires, arguments steeped in a quiet, venomous rage. I was living a hundred different lives, and none of them were my own. My own life began to feel thin and unreal. I’d be walking to the grocery store and the texture of the modern pavement would feel strange, alien. The bright colors of the cereal aisle seemed garish and loud compared to the sepia and black-and-white worlds I inhabited every night. My own memories started to get… fuzzy. I had to really concentrate to remember my college roommate’s name, but I could tell you the exact pattern of the rust stains on the hull of a shipwreck I’d studied for eight hours three weeks prior. The first major crack appeared on a Tuesday. I had spent the day with a particularly haunting photograph. It was a street corner, sometime in the late 70s judging by the cars and clothes. A crowd was gathered, looking at something just out of frame. Their faces were a mixture of shock and morbid curiosity. But my focus, for eight hours, had been on one man at the edge of the crowd. He was younger, maybe in his early twenties, with a thick mustache and a denim jacket. He wasn't looking at whatever the main event was. He was looking away, his face pale, his eyes wide with a specific, personal terror. He was the only one who looked truly afraid. That evening, on my way home, I saw him. I was waiting to cross the street, and he was on the other side. Older, of course. His mustache was grey, his face lined with the intervening forty-odd years. But it was him. The same wide-set eyes, the same shape of the jaw. The denim jacket was gone, replaced by a rumpled tweed coat, but it was unmistakably the man from the photograph. I froze. My heart slammed against my ribs. It had to be a coincidence. A trick of the light, my over-stimulated brain making connections that weren't there. But then he turned his head, and his eyes met mine across the four lanes of traffic. Recognition dawned on his face. And then, horror. The exact same expression from the photograph. A raw, gut-wrenching terror that seemed to suck all the air out of the space between us. He looked at me as if I were a ghost. As if I were the very thing he’d been running from on that street corner all those years ago. He stumbled backward, turned, and practically ran, disappearing into the evening crowd. I stood there for a long time, the traffic lights cycling from red to green to red again, the world moving on around me while my own had just ground to a sickening halt. That was when the paranoia began in earnest. The silence of the archive, once peaceful, now felt predatory. The hyper-focus of my colleagues no longer seemed like professional dedication; it looked like a desperate attempt to keep something at bay. I started watching them more closely. The man who rubbed his temple: his hand would sometimes twitch, his fingers splaying as if trying to ward something off. The young woman’s haunted eyes would occasionally flick towards an empty space in her carrel, her breath catching for a second before she forced her gaze back to the photo. I had to know what was going on. I broke the cardinal rule. I waited for the temple-rubbing man in the break room. He was nuking a container of what looked like plain rice. I walked up to him, my heart thudding. “Excuse me,” I said, my voice sounding rusty and loud in the quiet room. He flinched. He didn't just turn; he physically recoiled, his back hitting the counter. He looked at me with wide, panicked eyes, shaking his head frantically. He grabbed his rice, the microwave beeping insistently, and almost ran from the room, never once making eye contact. He didn’t say a single word. The message was clear. We don’t talk. We can’t talk. Maybe we’re not allowed to talk, or maybe we’re just too afraid of what might happen if we do. Then people started to disappear. One Monday, the carrel to my left was empty. The man who sat there, a quiet fellow with thinning hair, was just… gone. No one mentioned it. His desk was cleared out, as if he’d never existed. Two weeks later, the woman with the haunted eyes was gone too. Her carrel also wiped clean. There was no internal memo, no farewell card, just a silent, growing void in our ranks. Were they fired? Did they quit? Or was it something else? I was spiraling. My apartment no longer felt like my own. I’d catch a flicker of movement in my peripheral vision and turn to see a shadow that looked like a soldier in a trench coat. The scent of ozone and rain would fill my living room on a clear night, a phantom echo from a photo of a lightning-struck tree. The breakthrough, if you can call it that, came last week. I sat down at my desk and my hand brushed against something taped to the underside. It was a small, folded piece of paper. My blood ran cold. It felt deliberate, clandestine. I waited until my hands stopped shaking, then slipped it into my pocket. I spent the day in a fugue state, staring at a photo of a single, withered black rose lying on a cobblestone street, my mind entirely on the note in my pocket. That night, in the privacy of my apartment, I unfolded it. It wasn't a note, not in the traditional sense. It was just a string of alphanumeric characters: A7B3-C9D1-E4F8. I had no idea what it meant. A code? A web address? Then I remembered. Every archivist had a small, personal safe in the locker room, for valuables. We set our own combinations. But this didn't look like a combination. It looked like a serial number. Or a key. The next day, I watched the woman with the haunted eyes’ carrel. It was still empty. I took a chance. After everyone had left, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears, I went to the locker room. I found her locker. Next to the combination dial was a small, almost invisible keyhole. It was an override. This had to be it. I looked for a key, but then it clicked. The sequence was a password for the digital lock on her safe. I typed in the sequence. There was a soft beep, and a heavy click. The safe was full with paper. Scraps, notebooks, loose-leaf sheets filled with a frantic, spidery handwriting. It was forbidden knowledge. The one thing we were never, ever supposed to do. She had been writing it all down. I took it all, stuffed it in my bag, and ran. I’ve spent the last three days poring over her notes. It’s not a single, coherent narrative. It’s the fragmented, desperate research of a brilliant, terrified mind. There are clippings from obscure historical journals, printouts from physics forums, and pages and pages of her own synthesis. And I finally understand. According to her notes, certain moments in time, certain places, are so saturated with trauma, or violence, or some powerful, paradoxical emotion, that they create a kind of… scar on reality. A resonance. She used a lot of terms I barely understood: quantum entanglement, temporal feedback loops, mnemonic resonance. But the term she kept circling, the one she’d scrawled over and over in the margins, was genius loci. Spirit of place. But she’d added her own qualifier: Genius Loci Malignum. These aren’t just memories of bad events. They are the events themselves, still echoing. They are moments that have become sentient, predatory. A murder that was so brutal it imprinted itself on the room, and now the room itself lashes out at anyone who enters. A paradox, like a man who appears in a photograph of his own grandfather’s unit years before he was born, creating a loop that attracts… things. Unwanted attention from outside. These are glitches in the fabric of the universe. Hauntings of a moment, of a place, of an idea. The Foundation’s job is to find these glitches. They capture them. And the way they capture a rogue moment, a sentient memory, is to take a photograph. The photograph acts as a physical anchor, a key. But it's unstable. The note explained the process. Step 1: The photograph isolates the entity. It traps the genius loci in a single, static image. Step 2: The Archivist, through intense, prolonged focus, transfers the anchor from the photograph into their own consciousness. Our photographic memories, our ability to absorb every single detail; it's a prerequisite for the cage to work. We memorize the image so completely that our mind becomes the new vessel. Step 3: The photograph is incinerated. This destroys the original physical anchor, leaving the entity trapped entirely within the mind of the archivist. It has nowhere else to go. We are prisons. Human prisons for things that should not exist. The motto, "Some things are best remembered," is a cruel, literal joke. They are remembered by us, and only us, so that the rest of the world can forget. So that these malevolent echoes can't bleed out and harm anyone else. The few suffer for the many. The woman’s journal entries chronicled her decline. “October 12th: Archived the boardwalk collapse. I can still hear the screams when it’s quiet. Sometimes I smell the salt water and the fried dough.” “November 4th: Saw the arsonist from the warehouse fire photo on the subway today. He looked right at me and smiled. It wasn’t a human smile.” “December 19th: My sister came to visit. For a second, her face wasn’t her face. It was the face of the porcelain doll from that abandoned nursery photo. I screamed. She thinks I’m having a breakdown.” “January 8th: I have archived 112 anomalies. There isn’t much room left for me in here. I can’t remember what I had for breakfast, but I know the exact number of buttons on the coat of a man who vanished from a ship in 1924.” Her last entry was short. “They’re getting out. They’re leaking. The cage is full.” I’ve archived almost two hundred of them now. Two hundred of these… things. And the cage is full. My cage is full. My reality is fraying at the seams. Last night, I was making tea, and for a full minute, my kitchen wasn’t my kitchen. It was a cold, tiled morgue from a photo I’d studied months ago. The man from the 70s street corner: I see him everywhere now, in crowds, his face always twisted in that same silent scream, always looking right at me. The walls of my apartment sometimes ripple and show me the peeling wallpaper of a Victorian seance room. The static on the radio whispers words in a language I don’t know but understand with a cold dread. I think now that I am a walking, talking containment unit that has breached. And the entities I hold are starting to leak into the world around me. The other day, my landlord knocked on my door to ask about a water leak, and he flinched when he saw me. He said, "Sorry, for a second there… you looked like someone else. A lot of someone elses." He left without another word, his face pale. I found myself in my bathroom two nights ago, holding a bottle of pills. It felt like the most logical, rational thought I'd had in months. If I end it, they end with me. The memories, the things wearing the skins of memories, they all get erased. It would be a release. For me, and for the world. But as I was about to do it, the Supervisor's voice echoed in my head. "You will become the living record." And I realized, with a sudden, freezing certainty, that this is what they want. This is the end of the job cycle. It’s the Foundation's retirement plan. They hire us, they fill us up with these horrors until we break, and then we "retire" ourselves. It’s clean, efficient, and it completes the final incineration. So now I’m trapped. I can’t go on like this. I’m losing myself. My own memories feel like old, faded photographs compared to the vivid, high-definition nightmares I’m forced to carry. But I can’t kill myself, because that’s playing their game. That’s letting them win. That’s doing their dirty work for them. Is there another way? Can you fight a memory? Can you exorcise an event? I’m sitting in my apartment right now. The lights are flickering. In the reflection of the dark screen, my face is a flickering montage of a hundred others. A soldier, a bride, a factory worker, a terrified man on a street corner. The hum of the building sounds like a waltz, then like the roar of a fire, then like the howl of a storm at sea. They are all in here. And they want to get out. What do I do? submitted by /u/gamalfrank to r/nosleep [link] [comments]

So i finaly upgraded my desk lamp from an incandescent bulb to an LED and the 80W LED Is So much brighter than my old 80W incandescent. I don't mean just a little brighter i mean like 10 times brighter Its insane its like having the sun on my desk And Its also quite big. submitted by /u/Altruistic_Wolf_1362 to r/led [link] [comments]

Finally got around to building a DnD table. We have a pretty steady 6-7 player campaign going in a unique and custom build sandbox world. The table isn’t done yet but this has been a pretty ambitious first game table build and I love it. The wood is going to be painted black and each seat is going to get a small 8” shelf in front of their chairs which is where they will be able to roll their dice, it will have inset cup holders, and where you can snack. On the table top is a TV for our move into Arkenforge from hand drawn maps. TV is a 42” Toshiba with a piece of 1/4 plexiglass over top so we can still use our minis. On each side of the tv are power strips because we use DnDbeyond for character sheets. This was also build to double as my personal computer desk as well. There is a sound system under the table along with my computer and there will be led lights around the corners of the ceiling instead of the lamp which will run to a remote so I can change colors of the room on the fly depending on the tone of the game. Unfortunately this was the smallest I could make the table but still make sure it was a 7+1 table for myself and my PC’s. I’m open to any ideas on how to make it better. I am only a hobby woodworker and this is the first thing I have ever upholstered so it’s not the best, but it works for our needs for sure. (Im not sure why but I am not able to upload any other photos) submitted by /u/Rhys_A_Roni to r/DnD [link] [comments]