Faucet Water Quotes

Start writing, no matter what. The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on.

If you’re going to be a writer, the first essential is just to write. Do not wait for an idea. Start writing something and the ideas will come. You have to turn the faucet on before the water starts to flow.

Start writing, no matter what. The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on

Every morning the maple leaves. Every morning another chapter where the hero shifts from one foot to the other. Every morning the same big and little words all spelling out desire, all spelling out You will be alone always and then you will die. So maybe I wanted to give you something more than a catalog of non-definitive acts, something other than the desperation. Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I couldn’t come to your party. Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I came to your party and seduced you and left you bruised and ruined, you poor sad thing. You want a better story. Who wouldn’t? A forest, then. Beautiful trees. And a lady singing. Love on the water, love underwater, love, love and so on. What a sweet lady. Sing lady, sing! Of course, she wakes the dragon. Love always wakes the dragon and suddenly flames everywhere. I can tell already you think I’m the dragon, that would be so like me, but I’m not. I’m not the dragon. I’m not the princess either. Who am I? I’m just a writer. I write things down. I walk through your dreams and invent the future. Sure, I sink the boat of love, but that comes later. And yes, I swallow glass, but that comes later. Let me do it right for once, for the record, let me make a thing of cream and stars that becomes, you know the story, simply heaven. Inside your head you hear a phone ringing and when you open your eyes only a clearing with deer in it. Hello deer. Inside your head the sound of glass, a car crash sound as the trucks roll over and explode in slow motion. Hello darling, sorry about that. Sorry about the bony elbows, sorry we lived here, sorry about the scene at the bottom of the stairwell and how I ruined everything by saying it out loud. Especially that, but I should have known. Inside your head you hear a phone ringing, and when you open your eyes you’re washing up in a stranger’s bathroom, standing by the window in a yellow towel, only twenty minutes away from the dirtiest thing you know. All the rooms of the castle except this one, says someone, and suddenly darkness, suddenly only darkness. In the living room, in the broken yard, in the back of the car as the lights go by. In the airport bathroom’s gurgle and flush, bathed in a pharmacy of unnatural light, my hands looking weird, my face weird, my feet too far away. I arrived in the city and you met me at the station, smiling in a way that made me frightened. Down the alley, around the arcade, up the stairs of the building to the little room with the broken faucets, your drawings, all your things, I looked out the window and said This doesn’t look that much different from home, because it didn’t, but then I noticed the black sky and all those lights. We were inside the train car when I started to cry. You were crying too, smiling and crying in a way that made me even more hysterical. You said I could have anything I wanted, but I just couldn’t say it out loud. Actually, you said Love, for you, is larger than the usual romantic love. It’s like a religion. It’s terrifying. No one will ever want to sleep with you. Okay, if you’re so great, you do it— here’s the pencil, make it work … If the window is on your right, you are in your own bed. If the window is over your heart, and it is painted shut, then we are breathing river water. Dear Forgiveness, you know that recently we have had our difficulties and there are many things I want to ask you. I tried that one time, high school, second lunch, and then again, years later, in the chlorinated pool. I am still talking to you about help. I still do not have these luxuries. I have told you where I’m coming from, so put it together. I want more applesauce. I want more seats reserved for heroes. Dear Forgiveness, I saved a plate for you. Quit milling around the yard and come inside.

Sacraments are like hoses. They are the channels of the living water of God's grace. Our faith is like opening the faucet. We can open it a lot, a little, or not at all.

My brain is like a water faucet that I can turn on or off. Only now there is no off and the water of thoughts just flows.

I ran my big toe over the faucet, which was made to look like a golden swan. I guess it was supposed to be classy, but it just looked like the swan was vomiting water into the tub,which was a pretty gross thought.

is there any I could get a glass of water?" [waiter]There is no way... I toss and turn many a night trying to think up some way some how I could get glasses of water to costomers but I keep coming up empty..... Legend has it there was a waiter here many years ago... who had figured out a way to do just that but he is long gone and with him the secret. It had something to do with a glass rack and a faucet but no one has been able to put the pieces together so I must say no there is no way. HOW I WISH THERE WAS A WAY!!!

All water has been everywhere, Bekah. What flows from your faucet was once frozen inside a glacier, and squeezed by unimaginable pressures at the bottom of the deepest sea, and rippling in a lightless lake in a cavern no living thing has ever touched. Also, it has almost certainly been inside a dinosaur. All water is one water, and all water remembers the past.

You walk into a room and flip a switch and the room fills with light. You leave your garbage in bags on the curbside, and a truck comes and transports it to some invisible place. When you're in danger, you call for the police. Hot water pours from faucets. Lift a receiver or press a button on a telephone, and you can speak to anyone. All the information in the world is on the Internet, and the Internet is all around you, drifting through the air like pollen on a summer breeze. There is money, slips of paper that can be traded for anything: houses, boats, perfect teeth. There are dentists. She tried to imagine this life playing out somewhere at the present moment. Some parallel Kristen in an air-conditioned room, waking from an unsettling dream of walking through an empty landscape.

The next morning, when I went in to the bathroom to brush my teeth, I noticed the index card over the sink. RIGHT FAUCET DRIPS EASILY, it said. TIGHTEN WITH WRENCH AFTER USING. And then there was an arrow, pointing down to where a small wrench was tied with bright red yarn to one of the pipes. This is crazy, I thought. But that wasn't all. In the shower, HOT WATER IS VERY HOT! USE WITH CARE was posted over the soap dish. And on the toilet: HANDLE LOOSE. DON'T YANK. (As if I had some desire to do that.) The overhead fan was clearly BROKEN, the tiles by the door were LOOSE so I had to WALK CAREFULLY. And I was informed, cryptically, that the light over the medicine cabinet works, BUT ONLY SOMETIMES.

His words felt like running a hand under cold water after burning it on the stove. The pain might be smoothed while the water runs, but as soon as you turn off the faucet, the throbbing continues.

The sound of time flowing between us became the sound of the water trickling quietly from the faucet until dawn.

You write until the rust comes out of the faucet and it's clear water. Then you write down the clear water.

Suddenly you began to sob. It was an unnerving sound, like air escaping from a faucet when the water stops.

You took a life and the theft went unpunished. God didn't strike you down. The sky didn't fall. The morning after, you turned on the faucet and water still came out... It was still good when you raised your arm for a cab and one came towards you out of the flow like magic. You did things that were supposed to end you and found they were only things that changed you. It was a disappointment and a revelation and a bereavement and a new thrilling nudity. It was the basic prosaic obscenity: You kept going.

She hops expectantly into the sink. I turn on the tap for her; she laps without a glance in my direction, like a duchess so used to being ministered to that she no longer notices the servants and sees only a world where objects dumbly bend to her wishes, doors opening, faucets discharging cool water, delicious things appearing in her dish.

Start writing, no matter what. The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on.” —Louis L’Amour

Water will not flow from a faucet that is not connected to its source.

For a dog, successfully manipulating a water faucet would be very difficult if not impossible.

A harsh crack followed the rumble of thunder, a lightning strike. With that, the other musicians began to play, bringing in the tinkling sounds of light rain, the deeper thrum of thicker droplets. The others played the crashing waves, the lapping of water against a nonexistent shore. All around us were the sounds of water, dripping from faucets, gushing from waterfalls.

So I'd grown up eating my words, and it wasn't until later that that I realized how many had gotten backed up inside me. In the factory dorm, sentences spilled out of me like a broken faucet, and when I moved even further away and saw children splashing into rivers spurting from fire hydrants, water pouring into the streets like it was endless, I would see my younger self in that hydrant, but tugged open, a hungry stream.

One of the few things that August didn't know about her was that sometimes when she looked at her collection of pictures she tried to imagine and place herself in that other, shadow life. You walk into a room and flip a switch and the room fills with light. You leave your garbage in bags on the curb, and a truck comes and transports it to some invisible place. When you're in danger, you call for the police. Hot water pours from faucets. Lift a receiver or press a button on a telephone, and you can speak to anyone. All of the information in the world is on the Internet, and the Internet is all around you, drifting through the air like pollen on a summer breeze. There is money, slips of paper that can be traded for anything: houses, boats, perfect teeth. There are dentists. She tried to imagine this life playing out somewhere at the present moment. Some parallel Kirsten in an air-conditioned room, waking from an unsettling dream of walking through an empty landscape.

Like That" Love me like a wrong turn on a bad road late at night, with no moon and no town anywhere and a large hungry animal moving heavily through the brush in the ditch. Love me with a blindfold over your eyes and the sound of rusty water blurting from the faucet in the kitchen, leaking down through the floorboards to hot cement. Do it without asking, without wondering or thinking anything, while the machinery’s shut down and the watchman’s slumped asleep before his small TV showing the empty garage, the deserted hallways, while the thieves slice through the fence with steel clippers. Love me when you can’t find a decent restaurant open anywhere, when you’re alone in a glaring diner with two nuns arguing in the back booth, when your eggs are greasy and your hash browns underdone. Snick the buttons off the front of my dress and toss them one by one into the pond where carp lurk just beneath the surface, their cold fins waving. Love me on the hood of a truck no one’s driven in years, sunk to its fenders in weeds and dead sunflowers; and in the lilies, your mouth on my white throat, while turtles drag their bellies through slick mud, through the footprints of coots and ducks. Do it when no one’s looking, when the riots begin and the planes open up, when the bus leaps the curb and the driver hits the brakes and the pedal sinks to the floor, while someone hurls a plate against the wall and picks up another, love me like a freezing shot of vodka, like pure agave, love me when you’re lonely, when we’re both too tired to speak, when you don’t believe in anything, listen, there isn’t anything, it doesn’t matter; lie down with me and close your eyes, the road curves here, I’m cranking up the radio and we’re going, we won’t turn back as long as you love me, as long as you keep on doing it exactly like that.

Jill's face was hard when PE ended, and I had the feeling she was trying not to cry. I tried talking to her in the locker room, but she simply shook her head and headed off for the showers. I was about to go there myself when I heard a shriek. Those of us who were still by the lockers raced to the shower room to see what was happening. Laurel jerked the curtain back from her stall and came running out, oblivious to the fact that she was naked. I gaped. Her skin was covered in a fine sheen of ice. Water droplets from the shower had frozen solid on her skin and in her hair, though in the steamy heat of the rest of the room, they were already starting to melt. I glanced over to the shower itself and noticed that the water coming out of the faucet was also frozen solid.

It's interesting that penny-pinching is an accepted defense for toxic food habits, when frugality so rarely rules other consumer domains. The majority of Americans buy bottled drinking water, for example, even though water runs from the faucets at home for a fraction of the cost, and government quality standards are stricter for tap water than for bottled. At any income level, we can be relied upon for categorically unnecessary purchases: portable-earplug music instead of the radio; extra-fast Internet for leisure use; heavy vehicles to transport light loads; name-brand clothing instead of plainer gear. "Economizing," as applied to clothing, generally means looking for discount name brands instead of wearing last year's clothes again. The dread of rearing unfashionable children is understandable. But as a priority, "makes me look cool" has passed up "keeps arteries functional" and left the kids huffing and puffing (fashionably) in the dust.

There were several completely mysterious electrical devices connected with the washstand, and the water valve did not cut off when you released the faucet but kept pouring out until shut off—a sign, Shevek thought, either of great faith in human nature, or of great quantities of hot water.

If you weren't humping, you were waiting. I remember the monotony. Digging foxholes. Slapping mosquitoes. The sun and the heat and the endless paddies. Even in the deep bush, where you could die any number of ways, the war was nakedly and aggressively boring. But it was a strange boredom. It was boredom with a twist, the kind of boredom that caused stomach disorders. You'd be sitting at the top of a high hill, the flat paddies stretching out below, and the day would be calm and hot and utterly vacant, and you'd feel the boredom dripping inside you like a leaky faucet, except it wasn't water, it was a sort of acid, and with each little droplet you'd feel the stuff eating away at important organs. You'd try to relax. You'd uncurl your fists and let your thoughts go. Well, you'd think, this isn't so bad. And right then you'd hear gunfire behind you and your nuts would fly up into your throat and you'd be squealing pig squeals. That kind of boredom.

I’m about to take a shower because I smell like an all-nighter, then I think I’ll take a bath so I can have a faucet orgasm. After all, I didn’t get any last night. A faucet orgasm is pretty much the same principle as a bidet orgasm except upside-down. When we were growing up we had bidets in all the bathrooms and when I was about ten I accidentally discovered one of the things they were good for. After that I used to spend hours on the damn thing. This dump we rent doesn’t have a bidet so I have to get in the tub and slide up toward the front, running my legs up the wall on either side of the faucet. Turn on the warm water and smile. Actually, you’ve got to get the water temperature just right first or you could really be in for a nasty shock. I’ve made that mistake a few times. This time I get it just right and I come three times before I get around to actually taking a bath.

Well, what brand of water do you drink?" "Just what was in the faucet, sir," says Delphi humbly. "I--I did try to boil it--" "Good God.

The municipality sent water through six Annawadi faucets for ninety minutes in the morning and ninety minutes at night. Shiv Sena men had appropriated the taps, charging usage fees to their neighbors. These water-brokers were resented, but not as much as the renegade World Vision social worker who had collected money from Annawadians for a new tap, then run away with it.

It comes out of my mouth like water: the things he said at the beginning, what it's like to know a person's smell, the anxious catch that now has dulled to normal when I hold the pay phone and it rings and rings. How underneath I don't believe he's coming anymore, and I wish I could turn the air beside me into something solid to fill the hole he leaves. How sometimes when he'd touch me I'd go out onto the very edges of myself, far like on a tightrope or a plank, and balance knowing there was only air to catch me; how he'd hold me there till it got scary, sometimes longer, and it was realer and more raw than any thing I'd ever felt. How he would always close his eyes and seem so comfortable, casual even, and I was always amazed at that: how brave he must be for it not to scare him at all. How sometimes it broke me into two pieces, and I'd lie there under him naked and stretched out past my skin, and another me would watch from the ceiling. Even if it was too much I had to grow to hold it, because it belonged to me now, and I belonged to him, and if I let any of the pressure of it spill like water from my faucet mouth, it would all leak out and be gone from me forever. That's what he always said.

My mother believed in God's will for many years. It was af if she had turned on a celestial faucet and goodness kept pouring out. She said it was faith that kept all these good things coming our way, only I thought she said "fate" because she couldn't pronounce the "th" sound in "faith". And later I discovered that maybe it was fate all along, that faith was just an illusion that somehow you're in control. I found out the most I could have was hope, and with that I wasn't denying any possibility, good or bad. I was just saying, If there is a choice, dear God or whatever you are, here's where the odds should be placed. I remember the day I started thinking this, it was such a revelation to me. It was the day my mother lost her faith in God. She found that things of unquestioned certainty could never be trusted again. We had gone to the beach, to a secluded spot south of the city near Devil's Slide. My father had read in Sunset magazine that this was a good place to catch ocean perch. And although my father was not a fisherman but a pharmacist's assistant who had once been a doctor in China, he believed in his nenkan, his ability to do anything he put his mind to. My mother believed she had nenkan to cook anything my father had a mind to catch. It was this belief in their nenkan that had brought my parents to America. It had enabled them to have seven children and buy a house in Sunset district with very little money. It had given them the confidence to believe their luck would never run out, that God was on their side, that house gods had only benevolent things to report and our ancestors were pleased, that lifetime warranties meant our lucky streak would never break, that all the elements were now in balance, the right amount of wind and water.

few minutes later, when she momentarily forgot that the water was off and turned on the faucet, it ran beautifully. Andrew had, once again, succeeded. He’d arrived unannounced like a knight on his shiny white horse to save the damsel in distress. Damn him.

New York is full of water, and neither looks it nor acts it. Of the five boroughs of the city, only one—the Bronx—is on the mainland of the United States, and yet you can spend months in New York without seeing any water except what comes out of the faucet.

Spirituality is not like a water faucet in that it can be turned off or turned on at will. Some make the fatal error of assuming that religion is for others now and perhaps someday for us. Such thinking is not based on fact or experience, for we are daily becoming what we shall be.

Analogously, some water out of the tap is used for making coffee, some for washing dishes, and some for bathing, but the pipe and faucet don’t care; they convey the water regardless. The host-to-host protocol was to perform essentially the same function in the infrastructure of the network.

Well he’ll not get her, will he?” Angus exclaimed. “He’s just some little pond sprite. He can’t do anything out of the water, right? He’s powerless. I’ll get her out of here! We’ll go in to Glasgow or…” Ian sighed. “Come on, Angus. It’s not as simple as all that. This is an Elemental you’re dealing with. You’d have to take her to the center of the freaking Sahara to get away from him, and even then he’d probably make it rain. He’s in every damned faucet and kitchen tap all over the world. She takes a bath and he’ll pull her under!” Angus stared at him angrily. “It’s fucking happened!” Ian said.

You know,” she said, and from her tone he knew something was coming, “I used to wonder how come you never brought any trouts home. Always said you caught plenty. So one time I got your creel case open the night before you went on one a your little trips—price tag still on it after five years—and I tied a note on the end of the line. It said, ‘Hello, Ennis, bring some fish home, love, Alma.’ And then you come back and said you’d caught a bunch a browns and ate them up. Remember? I looked in the case when I got a chance and there was my note still tied there and that line hadn’t touched water in its life.” As though the word “water” had called out its domestic cousin, she twisted the faucet, sluiced the plates.

This is how my day usually goes. I leave the faucet open and know what it’s like to have my fingers around a minuscule whirlpool, and I cry, hoping if I do it for hours the water will end up tasting like the ocean, just so I could get myself half-drowning. I don’t know how to float on water. This is the closest thing I will ever get to breathing without forcing my lungs to turn into a garbage truck, or a car alarm, or anything that can get my neighbors out of their doors. Maybe if I blink my eyes as fast as I can, I will end up having lightning for tears because that’s how much they hurt. There is the constant banging on my door. On my bedside table is an empty mug that was once made with everything close to tasting like beautiful and patient and calm. And I am not. I am stepping on my own leash. my skin has purple circles, my eyes has been spending too many hours pretending to be an Olympic pool, when it’s too little to even be a sink. Last night, I realized, the tap water will never taste like tears, no matter how many hours I spent bending. The banging on my bedroom door will never stop. I wonder how long I can keep this up until I remember that there’s always a limit to pain, and none to love.

Grandma, he had often wanted to say, Is this where the world began? For surely it had begun in no other than a place like this. The kitchen, without doubt, was the center of creation, all things revolved about it; it was the pediment that sustained the temple. Eyes shut to let his nose wander, he snuffed deeply. He moved in the hell-fire steams and sudden baking-powder flurries of snow in this miraculous climate where Grandma, with the look of the Indies in her eyes and the flesh of two warm hens in her bodice, Grandma of the thousand arms, shook, basted, whipped, beat, minced, diced, peeled, wrapped, salted, stirred. Blind, he touched his way to the pantry door. A squeal of laughter rang from the parlor, teacups tinkled. But he moved on into the cool underwater green and wild-persimmon country where the slung and hanging odor of creamy bananas ripened silently and bumped his head. Gnats fizzed angrily about vinegar cruets and his ears. He opened his eyes. He saw bread waiting to be cut into slices of warm summer cloud, doughnuts strewn like clown hoops from some edible game. The faucets turned on and off in his cheeks. Here on the plum-shadowed side of the house with maple leaves making a creek-water running in the hot wind at the window he read spice-cabinet names.

Shortly after World War II, decades of investigation into the internal workings of the solids yielded a new piece of electronic hardware called a transistor (for its actual invention, three scientists at Bell Laboratories won the Nobel Prize). Transistors, a family of devices, alter and control the flow of electricity in circuits; one standard rough analogy compares their action to that of faucets controlling the flow of water in pipes.

First I smell that smell and am overcome with a sensation of elation. Like a tight faucet turned open, everything floods from me. I scan the view, take a deep breath, and inevitably utter, "God, I love it here." I stride quickly to where the sand is still wet from the previous tide and then, and then I am gone. There is no thinking, just being. I have no awareness of time or of myself. If I am searching for glass, it is rote, with no more or less consciousness than a jellyfish searching for sustenance. It is not mindlessness or oblivion, as I am wholly aware, but in a way that preempts any reality outside of the moment. There I am seaweed, I am water, I am stone, I am fish. I am a grain of sand, warm in the sun. I am reduced to nothing, but part of everything. I am home, I am free, I am one with the sea, I am the primordial me, and the glass is just my excuse to be there.

Everything about the whimsical inn inspired curiosity instead of fear. In a third-floor bathing room, Evangeline found the most delightful copper tub, reminiscent of the clock in the hall. It had lovely jewelled handles and a faucet that could pout out different-coloured waters in a variety of scents: Pink honeysuckle. Lavender rose. Green pine needle. Silver rain. She'd mixed the rain and honeysuckle, and now she smelled like a sweet and stormy day.

You walk into a room and flip a switch and the room fills with light. You leave your garbage in bags on the curb, and a truck comes and transports it to some invisible place. When you’re in danger, you call for the police. Hot water pours from faucets. Lift a receiver or press a button on a telephone, and you can speak to anyone. All of the information in the world is on the Internet, and the Internet is all around you, drifting through the air like pollen on a summer breeze.

In 1282, the Tuscan monk Ristoro d'Arezzo declared, "It is a dreadful thing for the inhabitants of a house not to know how it is made." Dreadful, indeed. What I think he meant was that we ought to understand the earth we live on, its skies, its stones. We ought to understand why we live the lives we live. But I don't even understand the apartment building in which I live. How is linoleum made? Or window glass, or porcelain? By what power does water rise to the third floor and pour out of this faucet?

He tans into burning while the opening fanfare to "Peaches en Regalia" flows over him, the bugle call for a hippie army that marched at the peak of the American parabola, that moment when physics held its breath to allow levitation, a small reward before the descent. The hippies knew it then, Maggot Boy Johnson thinks; they couldn't build it into words but they could feel it; a floating in the stomach as history shifted direction. They stopped, hey, what's that sound, and knew that the spiny skyscrapers reflected in the river, the chasms of concrete, the wide streets and sidewalks, the power lines cutting into the hills and mountains above missile silos, the highways drawing lines across the blank plains under enormous skies, the pupil of God's eye, would be the ruins that their grandchildren wandered among, the reminders that once there was always water in the faucet, there was electricity all the time, and America was prying off the shackles of its past. The vision opened up to them and winked out again, and those it blinded staggered through their lives unable to see anything else, while the rest of them wondered if they had only dreamed it.

He hadn’t even any satisfaction in the new water-cooler! And it was the very best of water-coolers, up-to-date, scientific, and right-thinking. It had cost a great deal of money (in itself a virtue). It possessed a nonconducting fiber ice-container, a porcelain water-jar (guaranteed hygienic), a drip-less non-clogging sanitary faucet, and machine-painted decorations in two tones of gold. He looked down the relentless stretch of tiled floor at the water-cooler, and assured himself that no tenant of the Reeves Building had a more expensive one, but he could not recapture the feeling of social superiority it had given him.

However hyped the risk of germs may be, it is at least real. Some corporations go so far as to conjure threats where there are none. A television ad for Brita, the German manufacturer of water-filtration systems, starts with a close-up of a glass of water on a kitchen table. The sound of a flushing toilet is heard. A woman opens a door, enters the kitchen, sits at the table and drinks the water. The water in your toilet and the water in your faucet "come from the same source," the commercial concludes. Sharp-eyed viewers will also see a disclaimer a the start of the ad printed in tiny white letters: MUNICIPAL WATER IS TREATED FOR CONSUMPTION. This is effectively an admission that the shared origin of the water in the glass and the toilet is irrelevant and so the commercial makes no sense--at least not on a rational level. As a pitch aimed at Gut, however, it makes perfect sense. The danger of contaminated drinking water is as old as humanity, and the worst contaminant has always been feces. Our hardwired defense against contamination is disgust, an emotion that drives us to keep our distance from the contaminant. By linking the toilet and the drinking glass, the commercial connects feces to our home's drinking water and raises an ancient fear--a fear that can be eased with the purchase of one of the company's many fine products.

Mimicry flows like beauty from Mexico City’s faucets, space and time are relative, and instead of the usual floral-and-stone façade, there’s dahlia and obsidian. In the course of time, what was yesterday a lake of water becomes asphalt today, and the past is a perpetual duplication that drowns the future. Yesterday’s omens come back, the same substance in a different shape. The city is a nagual that becomes a wall of skulls, an intelligent domotique structure: the Huitzilopochtli temple in a cathedral and Castile roses in cactus bouquets. Time is measured simultaneously with the Aztec, Julian, and Gregorian calendars and the cesium fountain atomic clock; the heart of Mexico City is made of mud and green rocks, and the God of Rain continues to cry over the whole country.

Even in the deep bush, where you could die any number of ways, the war was nakedly and aggressively boring. But it was a strange boredom. It was boredom with a twist, the kind of boredom that caused stomach disorders. You’d be sitting at the top of a high hill, the flat paddies stretching out below, and the day would be calm and hot and utterly vacant, and you’d feel the boredom dripping inside you like a leaky faucet, except it wasn’t water, it was a sort of acid, and with each little droplet you’d feel the stuff eating away at important organs. You’d try to relax. You’d uncurl your fists and let your thoughts go. Well, you’d think, this isn’t so bad. And right then you’d hear gunfire behind you and your nuts would fly up into your throat and you’d be squealing pig squeals. That kind of boredom.

him, more than once. But I still had a business to oversee, and have you any notion how fatiguing it is to keep an eye on a small child every single moment of every single day? I’m tremendously sympathetic with the sort of diligent mother who turns her back for an eye blink—who leaves a child in the bath to answer the door and sign for a package, to scurry back only to discover that her little girl has hit her head on the faucet and drowned in two inches of water. Two inches. Does anyone ever give the woman credit for the twenty-four-hours-minus-three-minutes a day that she has watched that child like a hawk? For the months, the years’ worth of don’t-put-that-in-your-mouth-sweeties, of whoops!-we-almost-fell-downs? Oh, no. We prosecute these people, we call it “criminal parental negligence” and drag them to court through the snot and salty tears of their own grief. Because only the three minutes count, those three miserable minutes that were just enough.

Her room was darkened with the curtains drawn, but he could sense her inside, moving around quietly. Her heartbeat had turned languid; she must be preparing for bed. He cocked his head, listening intently. The closet door opened and shut, and there was the sound of running water. He held the goblet with such tense care his fingers began to ache. When she had turned the faucet off, he said telepathically, "Tess, come to your window." Startled, frozen silence. Then the languid pace of her heart exploded into a furious rhythm. For a moment, when she didn't move, he thought she might disobey and end their tenuous relationship. Then he heard the soft rustle of cloth, and the creak of floorboards. When she appeared in the darkened window, she looked shadowy, like the half-hidden, opaque moon, her skin pale like pearls and hair lustrous with darkness. She looked down at him but said nothing. He held the goblet up to show it to her. "Are you sure you want to give this to me?" Because it mattered. It mattered what she said. While the struggle made the offering sweet, it was the act of the gift itself that was the vital part of the covenant. She didn't respond for long moments. He stood motionless as he waited, until finally she moved to put her hand to the windowpane. "Yes." He inclined his head to her, brought the goblet to his lips and drank. Pure, undiluted power slid down his throat. Like the delicate skin at her wrist, it was warm and perfumed with her scent. Such precious, beautiful life.

In short the only fully rational world would be the world of wishing-caps, the world of telepathy, where every desire is fulfilled instanter, without having to consider or placate surrounding or intermediate powers. This is the Absolute's own world. He calls upon the phenomenal world to be, and it IS, exactly as he calls for it, no other condition being required. In our world, the wishes of the individual are only one condition. Other individuals are there with other wishes and they must be propitiated first. So Being grows under all sorts of resistances in this world of the many, and, from compromise to compromise, only gets organized gradually into what may be called secondarily rational shape. We approach the wishing-cap type of organization only in a few departments of life. We want water and we turn a faucet. We want a kodak-picture and we press a button. We want information and we telephone. We want to travel and we buy a ticket. In these and similar cases, we hardly need to do more than the wishing—the world is rationally organized to do the rest. But this talk of rationality is a parenthesis and a digression. What we were discussing was the idea of a world growing not integrally but piecemeal by the contributions of its several parts. Take the hypothesis seriously and as a live one. Suppose that the world's author put the case to you before creation, saying: "I am going to make a world not certain to be saved, a world the perfection of which shall be conditional merely, the condition being that each several agent does its own 'level best.' I offer you the chance of taking part in such a world. Its safety, you see, is unwarranted. It is a real adventure, with real danger, yet it may win through. It is a social scheme of co-operative work genuinely to be done. Will you join the procession? Will you trust yourself and trust the other agents enough to face the risk?" Should you in all seriousness, if participation in such a world were proposed to you, feel bound to reject it as not safe enough? Would you say that, rather than be part and parcel of so fundamentally pluralistic and irrational a universe, you preferred to relapse into the slumber of nonentity from which you had been momentarily aroused by the tempter's voice? Of course if you are normally constituted, you would do nothing of the sort. There is a healthy- minded buoyancy in most of us which such a universe would exactly fit. We would therefore accept the offer—"Top! und schlag auf schlag!" It would be just like the world we practically live in; and loyalty to our old nurse Nature would forbid us to say no. The world proposed would seem 'rational' to us in the most living way. Most of us, I say, would therefore welcome the proposition and add our fiat to the fiat of the creator. Yet perhaps some would not; for there are morbid minds in every human collection, and to them the prospect of a universe with only a fighting chance of safety would probably make no appeal. There are moments of discouragement in us all, when we are sick of self and tired of vainly striving. Our own life breaks down, and we fall into the attitude of the prodigal son. We mistrust the chances of things. We want a universe where we can just give up, fall on our father's neck, and be absorbed into the absolute life as a drop of water melts into the river or the sea. The peace and rest, the security desiderated at such moments is security against the bewildering accidents of so much finite experience. Nirvana means safety from this everlasting round of adventures of which the world of sense consists. The hindoo and the buddhist, for this is essentially their attitude, are simply afraid, afraid of more experience, afraid of life. And to men of this complexion, religious monism comes with its consoling words: "All is needed and essential—even you with your sick soul and heart. All are one

Quote from "The Dish Keepers of Honest House" ....TO TWIST THE COLD is easy when its only water you want. Tapping of the toothbrush echoes into Ella's mind like footsteps clacking a cobbled street on a bitter, dry, cold morning. Her mind pushes through sleep her body craves. It catches her head falling into a warm, soft pillow. "Go back to bed," she tells herself. "You're still asleep," Ella mumbles, pushes the blanket off, and sits up. The urgency to move persuades her to keep routines. Water from the faucet runs through paste foam like a miniature waterfall. Ella rubs sleep-deprieved eyes, then the bridge of her nose and glances into the sink. Ella's eyes astutely fixate for one, brief millisecond. Water becomes the burgundy of soldiers exiting the drain. Her mouth drops in shock. The flow turns green. It is like the bubbling fungus of flockless, fishless, stagnating ponds. Within the iridescent glimmer of her thinking -- like a brain losing blood flow, Ella's focus is the flickering flashing of gray, white dust, coal-black shadows and crows lifting from the ground. A half minute or two trails off before her mind returns to reality. Ella grasps a toothbrush between thumb and index finger. She rests the outer palm against the sink's edge, breathes in and then exhales. Tension in the brow subsides, and her chest and shoulders drop; she sighs. Ella stares at pasty foam. It exits the drain as if in a race to clear the sink of negativity -- of all germs, slimy spit, the burgundy of imagined soldiers and oppressive plaque. GRASPING THE SILKY STRAND between her fingers, Ella tucks, pulls and slides the floss gently through her teeth. Her breath is an inch or so of the mirror. Inspections leave her demeanor more alert. Clouding steam of the image tugs her conscience. She gazes into silver glass. Bits of hair loosen from the bun piled at her head's posterior. What transforms is what she imagines. The mirror becomes a window. The window possesses her Soul and Spirit. These two become concerned -- much like they did when dishonest housekeepers disrupted Ella's world in another story. Before her is a glorious bird -- shining-dark-as-coal, shimmering in hues of purple-black and black-greens. It is likened unto The Raven in Edgar Allan Poe's most famous poem of 1845. Instead of interrupting a cold December night with tapping on a chamber door, it rests its claws in the decorative, carved handle of a backrest on a stiff dining chair. It projects an air of humor and concern. It moves its head to and fro while seeking a clearer understanding. Ella studies the bird. It is surrounded in lofty bends and stretches of leafless, acorn-less, nearly lifeless, oak trees. Like fingers and arms these branches reach below. [Perhaps they are reaching for us? Rest assured; if they had designs on us, I would be someplace else, writing about something more pleasant and less frightening. Of course, you would be asleep.] Balanced in the branches is a chair. It is from Ella's childhood home. The chair sways. Ella imagines modern-day pilgrims of a distant shore. Each step is as if Mother Nature will position them upright like dolls, blown from the stability of their plastic, flat, toe-less feet. These pilgrims take fate by the hand. LIFTING A TOWEL and patting her mouth and hands, Ella pulls the towel through the rack. She walks to the bedroom, sits and picks up the newspaper. Thumbing through pages that leave fingertips black, she reads headlines: "Former Dentist Guilty of Health Care Fraud." She flips the page, pinches the tip of her nose and brushes the edge of her chin -- smearing both with ink. In the middle fold directly affront her eyes is another headline: "Dentist Punished for Misconduct." She turns the page. There is yet another: "Dentist guilty of urinating in surgery sink and using contaminated dental instruments on patients." This world contains those who are simply insane! Every profession has those who stray from goals....

You can go now,” I snapped, finger-combing my hair from my face. Will paid no attention to me, and instead of getting dressed, he kicked off his jeans from where they were bunched at his ankles. He sauntered toward the bathroom, and I listened, fuming, while the faucet ran. He returned with a glass of water and he shot a cocky grin in my direction. “I said, you can go now.” Will flopped down beside me with a laugh. “Yeah, I’m not going to do that.

Since we’re on the topic of stains, here’s the absolute best thing you’re going to learn from me: with the exception of mud and ink, almost every single stain will benefit from being flushed with cold water. Hold the stained area taut under a running faucet and let the water pressure do a lot of the work for you. If you have a sponge or towel nearby, that’s even better: use it to help push the stain out even more while under the running water. A small amount of soap—dish soap, hand soap, laundry detergent, whatever is close by—will also really help matters. If the stained garment is dry-clean-only and you don’t want to risk making things worse, you should point out the stain when you drop the item off with your cleaner so they can spot treat it.

There is a well-known joke—at least well known in mathematics—about how mathematicians work. A mathematician and a Starbucks barista are each placed in front of a stove with a kettle and a nearby faucet and told to make boiling water. Both do the same thing. They fill the kettle with water from the faucet, light the stove with a match, and place the water-filled kettle on the stove. Mission accomplished. The mathematician and the Starbucks barista are next placed in front of a stove with a kettle that they are told is filled with clean water and told to make boiling water yet again. The barista lifts the kettle off the stove for a moment, lights the stove, and puts the kettle back on. The mathematician lifts the kettle off the stove, pours out the water into a sink, puts the newly emptied kettle back on the stove and says, “The problem has been reduced to the previously solved case. Q.E.D.

Every year during the fair, we scouted out the commercial vendor exhibits, snatching up all the free stuff—pencils and key chains and yardsticks—until we had a treasure bag of valuable booty. At one end of the vendor building was one of the magical wonders of the fair—a giant faucet that floated in the air, unconnected to any pipe or wire, yet pouring a heavy stream of water into a barrel below. Even after I was old enough to understand how it worked, I stood transfixed at the Culligan exhibit each year, straining to see the plastic tube. I never could.

Most of the great manifestations of the power of God in the earth are silent and unseen. You only know that the power is there by the results. Think of the thousands of millions of tons of water that the sun is constantly lifting up from the earth to the clouds, to send down again in dew and rain. Not a sound is heard. But you can’t fill a cup of water from the faucet without much noise. The power manifested in the growing plants is beyond all human conception, yet there is no sound. A growing plant can break a rock in pieces yet it is all done silently. The heavens declare the glory of God, yet they don’t ring bells and blow trumpets. God’s work is so mighty that the results speak for themselves; advertisement would belittle it. 

Peng Li took off his shirt and washed while he spoke with Lao Dao. The “washing” consisted only of splashing some drops of water over his face because the water was already shut off and only a thin trickle came out of the faucet. Peng Li took down a dirty towel from the wall and wiped his face carelessly before stuffing the towel into a drawer as well. His moist hair gave off an oily glint.

How’s the shoulder?” he asked. “It’s itchy,” she said, making a face. “I’m doing my best not to scratch it, but it’s really hard. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, Mister I’ve-never-been-shot.” She disappeared into the bathroom, where he heard the sink faucet turning on and the squeak of plumbing not put to use until now coming alive. Then a second later, Lara shouting, “Yes!” followed by water pouring into the sink bowl.

Dale’s face is older. Just a little. Around the eyes and mouth. The skin of his neck. The back of his hands. Maybe not, he thinks, turning on the faucet, letting the water grow warm then hot. He begins shaving his lubricated chin and cheeks. Chrysalis hibernation slows things down, but it doesn't stop them, not all together, and he finds himself to currently resemble something between a derelict and a college student, neither one ringing particularly desirable in his present mood.

The contemporary world is full of things that look beautiful and are produced through hideous means. People died so that this mine may profit, that these shoes maybe produced as cheaply as possible, that that refinery may spew those toxic fumes in the course of producing its petroleum. I have often thought about this disconnection as a lack of integrity that's pervasive in modern life. Once, the trees from which wood came, the springs, river, well, or rain from which drinking water came would have been familiar; every object would appear out of somewhere, from someone or something known to the user, and producers and consumers would be the same people or people who knew one another. Industrialization, urbanization, and transnational markets created a world where water poured out of faucets, food and clothing appeared in stores, fuel (in our time if not in Orwell”s with the coal chutes and sooty air) was largely invisible, and the work that held all this together was often done by people who were themselves invisible. There were undeniable benefits—a more stimulating and various materials and mental life—but they came at a cost. The places, plants, animals, materials, and objects that had once been as well-known as friends and family has become strangers, does had the people who worked with these materials. Things appeared from beyond the horizon, from beyond knowing, and knowing was an act of volition instead of a part of everyday life.

Boosting dopamine can lead to enthusiastic engagement with things that would otherwise be perceived as unimportant. For example, marijuana users have been known to stand in front of a sink, watching water drip from the faucet, captivated by the otherwise mundane sight of the drops falling over and over again. The dopamine-boosting effect is also evident when marijuana smokers get lost in their own thoughts, floating aimlessly through imaginary worlds of their own creation. On the other hand, in some situations marijuana suppresses dopamine, mimicking what H&N molecules tend to do. In that case, activities that would typically be associated with wanting and motivation, such as going to work, studying, or taking a shower, seem less important. IMPULSIVENESS

Why couldn’t she get past her anger and open her heart to let love flow to the child? She was like a faucet without any water.

I find the white enamel pan she used for bread and biscuits. It is the same pan she used to bathe us when we were babies. I turn the faucet on and hold my hand under the water until it is warm, the temperature one uses to wash an infant. I find a clean washcloth in a stack of washcloths. She had nothing in her childhood. She made sure she had plenty of everything when she grew up and made her own life. Her closets were full of pretty dresses, so many she had not time to wear them all. They were bought by the young girl who wore the same flour sack dress to school every day, the one she had to wash out every night, and hang up to dry near the wood stove.

If you have recently purchased your RV, then do make a mistake by just storing it in the storage unit. Also, you should choose the right storage units like RV storage Daphne AL. It is important to prepare your RV before storing it. Here, we have described some steps that your need to follow before sending your RV into hibernation mode. You should follow the below-mentioned tips to keep your RV safe during the winter season: 1. Completely Winterize Water System The large-size RVs have washing machines, ice machines, dishwashers, etc. You need to follow some extra water system winterization steps. You should drain off all the appliances and make sure that not even a single unit is left behind. You should ensure that antifreeze reaches all the faucets. This tip will prevent your pipes from cracking. 2. Remove Batteries You should disconnect the batteries because the winter season can damage these as well. You should store the fully charged batteries in a dry and warm spot. Never store your battery on a concrete floor. Otherwise, you will get a dead battery at the end of the season. Choose the storage unit with a climate control facility like storage units Daphne AL so that your batteries do not drain out. 3. Apply Wax Coating You should protect the exterior of your RV by applying a wax coating. First of all, clean the exterior while checking the cracks, and patch the crack with sealant. Finally, apply the layer of wax to it. 4. Clean And Dry Your Awning You should clean and dry the awning while thoroughly cleaning the exterior of the RV during wax application. You will be able to complete two steps in one go. It is very important to ensure that the fabric of the awning is completely dry so that there would be no mold formation. Finally, send the RV to the closed storage unit like storage Daphne AL A similar rule applies to the pop-up or fold-out trailers with canvas sidings.

Silently, his tears were streaming down his face like water from a faucet that could not be turned all the way off.

Now imagine starting again with a full tub, and again open the drain, but this time, when the tub is about half empty, turn on the inflow faucet so the rate of water flowing in is just equal to that flowing out. What happens? The amount of water in the tub stays constant at whatever level it had reached when the inflow became equal to the outflow. It is in a state of dynamic equilibrium—its level does not change, although water is continuously flowing through it.

You’re forgiven,” she said, and tried to smile. She clenched her jaw and wiped away her tears, frustrated with herself for crying. “But forgiveness is…overrated. Actions have repercussions-like a science experiment, a chemical reaction.” She moved back to the sink, turned both faucets on, and let the water swirl together. She looked worn out. I perceived in her eyes and in her gestures that, yes, she cared about me, she would cry about me, but in the end she could and would get over me. Somehow, I hadn’t realized that. “The truth,” she said, talking almost to herself, “doesn’t need us to protect it. All we have to do is live inside it and it will protect us, right?” I nodded; I don’t know why; I didn’t understand what she was going on about.

This is the fundamental difference between digital and analog: A digital valve is either on or off; an analog valve, like your kitchen faucet, can be anything in between. In the hydraulic computer, all that is required of the input signal is that it be strong enough to move the valve. In this case, the difference that makes a difference is the difference in water pressure sufficient to switch the valve on. And since a weakened signal entering an input will still produce a full-strength output, we can connect thousands of layers of logic, the output of one layer controlling the next, without worrying about a gradual decrease in pressure. The output of each gate will always be at full pressure.

The Monstera adansonnii had yellowed; the spider plant was a dismal mop; her golden pothos was crispy. He took one down and poked the dirt, hard and unforgiving. “Don’t worry about that!” she said. “Get some rest—” “It’s okay it’s okay—tell me more!” They babbled over the sound of the faucet as he watered first the pothos, then everything else in the kitchen sink. “Thank you,” she said. “Where are your towels?” Her place wasn’t big but he took his time, picking up each mug and opening all the drawers she let him. He wanted three-dimensionality after a lifetime of seeing her through photos and videos. After hours of catching up, Tim was falling asleep on Valerie’s sofa when Mother called from Seoul. He fought the jetlag to sit up so that Valerie could squeeze in beside him. “Ah!” Mother shrieked. “Valerie!” “Umma!” Valerie cried. Valerie gushed about everything the way she used to when she was a girl. Growing up, Tim had clasped the landline and then Mother’s computer and then her cellphone the two times a year they called.

Everything about the whimsical inn inspired curiosity instead of fear. In a third-floor bathing room, Evangeline found the most delightful copper tub, reminiscent of the clock in the hall. It had lovely jewelled handles and a faucet that could pour out different-coloured waters in a variety of scents: Pink honeysuckle. Lavender rose. Green pine needle. Silver rain. She'd mixed the rain and honeysuckle, and now she smelled like a sweet and stormy day.

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The contemporary world is full of things that look beautiful and are produced through hideous means. People died so that this mine may profit, that these shoes maybe produced as cheaply as possible, that that refinery may spew those toxic fumes in the course of producing its petroleum. I have often thought about this disconnection as a lack of integrity that's pervasive in modern life. Once, the trees from which wood came, the springs, river, well, or rain from which drinking water came would have been familiar; every object would appear out of somewhere, from someone or something known to the user, and producers and consumers would be the same people or people who knew one another. Industrialization, urbanization, and transnational markets created a world where water poured out of faucets, food and clothing appeared in stores, fuel (in our time if not in Orwell”s with the coal chutes and sooty air) was largely invisible, and the work that held all this together was often done by people who were themselves invisible. There were undeniable benefits—a more stimulating and various materials and mental life—but they came at a cost. The places, plants, animals, materials, and objects that had once been as well-known as friends and family had become strangers, as had the people who worked with these materials. Things appeared from beyond the horizon, from beyond knowing, and knowing was an act of volition instead of a part of everyday life.

Start writing, no matter what. The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on.

My biggest problem during the postwar period was the doom and gloom of its most celebrated thinkers. I didn’t share their negativity about the human condition. I had studied how primates resolve conflicts, sympathize with each other, and seek cooperation. Violence is not their default condition. Most of the time, they live in harmony. The same applies to our own species. I was shocked, therefore, in 1976 when Dawkins asserted in The Selfish Gene, “Be warned that if you wish, as I do, to build a society in which individuals cooperate generously and unselfishly towards a common good, you can expect little help from biological nature.”6 I’d argue quite the contrary! Without our long evolution as intensely social beings, we’d be unlikely to care for our fellow humans. We have been programmed to pay attention to each other and offer help when needed. What else would be the point of living in groups? Many animals do, and they do so only because group life, which includes giving and receiving assistance, yields tremendous advantages over a solitary life. One time Dawkins and I politely disagreed in person. On a cold November morning, I took him and a cameraman up a tower at the Yerkes Field Station. It overlooked the chimps that I knew so well. I pointed out Peony, an old female. Her arthritis was so acute that we had seen younger females hurry to fetch water for her. Instead of letting Peony slowly trek to the water faucet, they’d run ahead of her to suck up a mouthful and return to spit it into her mouth, which she opened wide. They also sometimes placed their hands on her ample behind to push her up into the climbing frame so that she could join a cluster of grooming friends. Peony received this aid from individuals unrelated to her, who surely couldn’t expect any favors in return because she was not in a condition to deliver them. How to explain such behavior? And how to explain all the acts of kindness that we ourselves engage in every day, sometimes with complete strangers? Dawkins tried to salvage his theory by blaming genes, saying that they must be “misfiring.” Genes, however, are little strings of DNA devoid of intentions. They do what they do without any goals in mind, which means that they can’t be selfish or unselfish. They also can’t accidentally miss any goals.

For most of us, it isn’t heresy or rank apostasy that will derail our profession of faith. It’s all the worries of life. You’ve got car repairs. Then your water heater goes out. The kids need to see a doctor. You haven’t done your taxes yet. Your checkbook isn’t balanced. You’re behind on thank you notes. You promised your mother you’d come over and fix a faucet. You’re behind on wedding planning. Your boards are coming up. You have more applications to send out. Your dissertation is due. Your refrigerator is empty. Your lawn needs mowing. Your curtains don’t look right. Your washing machine keeps rattling. This is life for most of us, and it’s choking out spiritual life.

Do not waste water or soap. Water is life. It is precious, and if you are lucky enough to have it come easily out of your faucet, treat it with gratitude and respect. Review your water footprint. Every time you wash dishes is an opportunity to practice mindfulness and to reduce waste.

[O]nly certain kinds of interactions with the environment are recognized as such; swimming in the ocean and wading in mountain streams are more likely to be understood as meaningful ways to interact with water, while running one's fingers under a faucet is not. But why not? The answer lies partly in long-standing assumptions that nature and the environment only exist “out there,” outside of our houses and neighborhoods; the answer lies, too, in long-standing—and even less visible—assumptions that only certain ways of understanding and acting on one's relation to the environment (including other humans) are acceptable. These assumptions have significant material effects. Seeing nature as only “out there,” or faucet water as categorically different from ocean water, makes environmental justice work all the more difficult.

I lived out at Sunlan’ Lan’ an’ Cattle Company’s place. Honest to God, they got a cop for ever’ ten people. Got one water faucet for ’bout two hundred people.

Everyone wants their own Eden, I suppose, their piece of land after the war. The only difference now is that, like carefree recreation, few want a relationship to the water and soil that sustain them. For that reason, I would rather have my canals than my faucets and sprinklers. Water and soil now are for creating the illusion of living in a spontaneous garden of grace and bounty but not to be mixed with our blood and sweat. Instead of working for my redemption in the soil of my ancestors, I buy décor for my private garden. Anything to protect myself from ever knowing my own sins in the reflections of the waters. There is nothing to be seen in the transparent streams coming from my taps except the refracted form of shapeless white basins where I wash the invisible germs from my hands every day.

As a plumber in San Diego Hometown Plumbing, one would likely have extensive knowledge and experience in plumbing systems for residential, commercial, and industrial buildings in the San Diego area. This would include expertise in the installation, repair, and maintenance of pipes, water heaters, faucets, toilets, and other plumbing fixtures. San Diego plumbers would also be familiar with the unique challenges posed by the city's geography, such as the need for earthquake-resistant piping and water conservation measures due to the region's semi-arid climate. They may also be required to comply with local building codes and regulations, ensuring that plumbing systems are safe and up to code. In short, a plumber in San Diego would play a critical role in ensuring that homes and businesses in the area have access to safe and reliable water and sanitation services.

Make a bug list: Every minute of every day, we come into contact with people and situations, some of which somehow seem suboptimal. When I first moved to the United Kingdom more than 20 years ago, I wondered why most bathroom sinks had separate spigots for hot water and cold water. Why not let mixed hot and cold water—adjusted to just the right temperature—be mixed within the faucet instead of in the bowl? My advice is that you carry with you a notepad (or use an app on your phone) and make note of everything you encounter that “bugs you”—that is, could be done better.

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His words felt like running a hand under cold water after burning it on the stove—the pain might be soothed while the water runs, but as soon as you turn off the faucet, the throbbing continues.

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Water streams from the faucet for his final bath. A moment to wash and say good-bye to this skin that has held his soul. This skin he has probably loved and hated and mistaken for who he was.

He wants her to stay, and stay. So does the House: the room is warm and wisteria-sweet around them, the light gentle amber. He wonders if Opal has noticed that the water comes out of the faucet whatever temperature she wants and the cushions are always precisely where she likes them best. That she never trips on the stairs or fumbles for a light switch, that the sun follows her from window to window, room to room, like a cat hoping for affection. Arthur knows she would make a good Warden, much better than himself. He was born in the House, but Opal was called, and the House calls the homeless and hungry, the desperately brave, the fools who will fight to the very last.

Upon Evangeline and Jacks's initial return to the inn, the Hollow had actually been quite frosty. Doors often slammed shut. Windows stuck. Wardrobes refused to open. Faucets yielded only icy water. 'I think it's cross with us,' Jacks had said. 'Give it a few days. It will warm up.' The walls had rattled then. 'If it doesn't, we'll leave,' Jacks added, tossing a dart up in the air as he spoke. 'We can build a new inn- a better one.' Jacks caught his dart, then threw it, purposefully missing the board and sinking the dart's sharp tip into the wall instead. Doors stopped slamming after that. Windows no longer stuck, and wardrobes were more eager to open. As the days went on, the Hollow became friendlier and friendlier. Fresh flowers started to appear on tables. Evangeline found new logs in the fireplaces every morning at dawn, and whenever she drew a bath, the water was always perfectly warm. The Hollow wanted them to stay. (Indigo Exclusive Edition Alternate Ending).

At last the revenants became so troublesome the peasants abandoned the village and it fell solely into the possession of subtle and vindictive inhabitants who manifest their presences by shadows that fall almost imperceptibly awry, too many shadows, even at midday, shadows that have no source in anything visible; by the sound, sometimes, of sobbing in a derelict bedroom where a cracked mirror suspended from a wall does not reflect a presence; by a sense of unease that will afflict the traveller unwise enough to pause to drink from the fountain in the square that still gushes spring water from a faucet stuck in a stone lion's mouth. A cat prowls in a weedy garden; he grins and spits, arches his back, bounces away from an intangible on four fear-stiffened legs. Now all shun the village below the château in which the beautiful somnambulist helplessly perpetuates her ancestral crimes.

In Dayton, as elsewhere, there was a North Methodist-Episcopal church and a South Methodist-Episcopal church—divided not by the town’s geography but by our opposite allegiances during the Civil War. Still, no matter what our parents’ and grandparents’ views during the war had been, all Methodists believed in free will; believed in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit; believed in the Bible as all that was necessary for salvation. That wasn’t the same as believing it was literally true. But I’d never really thought about that. I’d never had to. You don’t need to question the truths of a childhood until they are challenged—or contradicted. I grew up with light from candles, warmth from stoves, water hauled from wells in buckets. None of those things had any true meaning for me until they’d been replaced by light from electric lamps, warmth from steam heat, and water from a kitchen faucet. Growing up, I knew nothing about Jews except that Christ had been one but had been crucified by a lot of others. I’m not sure I’d even

I meant it about the bath,” she said, twisting the faucets and plugging the drain. “You stink.” “Tell me everything.” “I will, when you’re soaking in the bath and don’t smell like a vagrant.” “If memory serves, you smelled even worse when we first met. And I didn’t shove you into the nearest trough in Varese.” She glared. “Funny.” “You made my eyes water for the entire damn journey to Mistward.” “Just get in.” Chuckling, he obeyed.

Louis L’Amour, the highly prolific bestselling author of Western novels, gave this advice to writers: “Start writing, no matter what. The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on.

Everything I know about you, I know it from the absence of you. All the crushed glass on the road I once thought was water is coming back to me. I wash my hands and there's blood everywhere. I run the faucets and they only glow. This city has been eating its loneliness again (I thought you should know about it).

The truth is that it’s not waste if you are using something to function. Running your sprinklers every day for fifteen minutes is wasting water because that’s more water than your yard needs to live. Grocery stores and restaurants throw out good food daily and that’s wasting food. Not getting a dripping faucet fixed when you can afford to is wasting water. But using something is not the same as wasting something. It’s okay to use a paper plate to eat if you’re depressed and otherwise would’ve struggled to eat at all. Someone with diabetes can use disposable needles and you can buy a fucking prepackaged salad so you eat.

But I also want to wiggle my dick all over you. Both. At the same time.” He chuckles as he reaches around me to flip on the faucet to fill the glass with water. “I could go for some snuggles and dick wiggles.

Nothing is perfect, she told herself, as she closed the door and put the flowers in water, opening the faucet all the way so that the stream of water would dislodge the fluvial knot jammed in her throat. Nothing is ideal, she insisted, in order to feel the crystalline warmth of pain moistening her eyes, barely wetting the blue watercolors of the wilting flowers that awaited the bitter histrionic dewdrops of her tears. But she couldn’t cry, no matter how many sad songs and sentimental arpeggios she tried to remember; she could never drain the tormented ocean of her life.

Yee-ouch!” she cried as the pan clattered back onto the stovetop. She was shaking her left hand and staring at the venison, grateful she hadn’t dropped their dinner on the floor, when Callahan appeared in the doorway to her kitchen. “What’s wrong?” “I’m an idiot. I almost dropped the roast.” “You burned yourself,” he surmised as his gaze shifted from her to the pot on the stove. Crossing to the kitchen sink, he twisted the cold water faucet. “C’mere.” When she moved close, he took her arm by the wrist and studied her hand as he guided it beneath the running water. “You grabbed your pan without a pad? You don’t strike me as the careless sort.” “I have my moments of ditziness,” she replied. Ditziness