Lift Heavier Quotes

...the darkness does not lift but becomes yet heavier as I think how little we can hold in mind, how everything is constantly lapsing into oblivion with every extinguished life, how the world is, as it were, draining itself, in that the history of countless places and objects which themselves have no power or memory is never heard, never described or passed on.

Do you see how an act is not, as young men think, like a rock that one picks up and throws, and it hits or misses, and that's the end of it. When that rock is lifted, the earth is lighter; the hand that bears it heavier. When it is thrown, the circuits of the stars respond, and where it strikes or falls, the universe is changed. On every act the balance of the whole depends. The winds and seas, the powers of water and earth and light, all that these do, and all that the beasts and green things do, is well done, and rightly done. All these act within the Equilibrium. From the hurricane and the great whale's sounding to the fall of a dry leaf and the gnat's flight, all they do is done within the balance of the whole. But we, insofar as we have power over the world and over one another, we must learn to do what the leaf and the whale and the wind do of their own nature. We must learn to keep the balance. Having intelligence, we must not act in ignorance. Having choice, we must not act without responsibility.

Love is like chains of unbreakable steel. Love is like iron weights, heavier than the world. Love can crush just as surely as it can lift up. Everything else wilts before it.

Do you see, Arren, how an act is not, as young men think, like a rock that one picks up and throws, and it hits or misses, and that's the end of it. When that rock is lifted, the earth is lighter; the hand that bears it is heavier. When it is thrown, the circuits of the stars respond, and where it strikes or falls the universe is changed.

The most common theory points to the fact that men are stronger than women and that they have used their greater physical power to force women into submission. A more subtle version of this claim argues that their strength allows men to monopolize tasks that demand hard manual labor, such as plowing and harvesting. This gives them control of food production, which in turn translates into political clout. There are two problems with this emphasis on muscle power. First, the statement that men are stronger is true only on average and only with regard to certain types of strength. Women are generally more resistant to hunger, disease, and fatigue than men. There are also many women who can run faster and lift heavier weights than many men. Furthermore, and most problematically for this theory, women have, throughout history, mainly been excluded from jobs that required little physical effort, such as the priesthood, law, and politics, while engaging in hard manual labor in the fields....and in the household. If social power were divided in direct relation to physical strength or stamina, women should have got far more of it. Even more importantly, there simply is no direct relation between physical strength and social power among humans. People in their sixties usually exercise power over people in their twenties, even though twenty-somethings are much stronger than their elders. ...Boxing matches were not used to select Egyptian pharaohs or Catholic popes. In forager societies, political dominance generally resides with the person possessing the best social skills rather than the most developed musculature. In fact, human history shows that there is often an inverse relation between physical prowess and social power. In most societies, it’s the lower classes who do the manual labor. Another theory explains that masculine dominance results not from strength but from aggression. Millions of years of evolution have made men far more violent than women. Women can match men as far as hatred, greed, and abuse are concern, but when push comes to shove…men are more willing to engage in raw physical violence. This is why, throughout history, warfare has been a masculine prerogative. In times of war, men’s control of the armed forces has made them the masters of civilian society too. They then use their control of civilian society to fight more and more wars. …Recent studies of the hormonal and cognitive systems of men and women strengthen the assumption that men indeed have more aggressive and violent tendencies and are…on average, better suited to serve as common soldiers. Yet, granted that the common soldiers are all men, does it follow that the ones managing the war and enjoying its fruits must also be men? That makes no sense. It’s like assuming that because all the slaves cultivating cotton fields are all Black, plantation owners will be Black as well. Just as an all-Black workforce might be controlled by an all-White management, why couldn’t an all-male soldiery be controlled by an all-female government?

The darkness does not lift but becomes yet heavier as I think how little we can hold in mind, how everything is constantly lapsing into oblivion with every extinguished life, how the world is, as it were, draining itself, in that the history of countless places and objects which themselves have no power of memory is never heard, never described or passed on.

Writing is draining. Every word is like lifting a stone and levering it into place. Your head aches, your muscles ache and every word you conjure up is heavier than the last one.

God In his malodorous brain what slugs and mire, Lanthorned in his oblique eyes, guttering burned! His body lodged a rat where men nursed souls. The world flashed grape-green eyes of a foiled cat To him. On fragments of an old shrunk power, On shy and maimed, on women wrung awry, He lay, a bullying hulk, to crush them more. But when one, fearless, turned and clawed like bronze, Cringing was easy to blunt these stern paws, And he would weigh the heavier on those after. Who rests in God's mean flattery now? Your wealth Is but his cunning to make death more hard. Your iron sinews take more pain in breaking. And he has made the market for your beauty Too poor to buy, although you die to sell. Only that he has never heard of sleep; And when the cats come out the rats are sly. Here we are safe till he slinks in at dawn But he has gnawed a fibre from strange roots, And in the morning some pale wonder ceases. Things are not strange and strange things are forgetful. Ah! if the day were arid, somehow lost Out of us, but it is as hair of us, And only in the hush no wind stirs it. And in the light vague trouble lifts and breathes, And restlessness still shadows the lost ways. The fingers shut on voices that pass through, Where blind farewells are taken easily .... Ah! this miasma of a rotting God!

What you see is what I am. I've not had my boobs done or my arse lifted, no nips, no tucks. No ribs removed, nothing. Those little strumpets we see on the silver screen today are mostly bathroom sealant. They buy breasts over the counter. What would you like, honey, small, medium or large? They give us stick insects and tell us it's beauty. If someone of their size went for an audition jn my day she'd have been shown a square meal and told to come back when she was a stone heavier. What's wring with curves? Anyone over a ten these days is regarded not as an average-sized woman but a marketing opportunity. Cream for this, pills for that, superfluous hair, collagen injection, quick weight-loss diets. Where's it going to end? We're pressured to expend so much money and effort ti be the 'perfect' shape when that shape is physically attainable by only one woman in a million. It's the cold face of capitalism, boys and girls, preying in misguided expectations. Besides, I always found perfection an overrated commodity

There are two problems with this emphasis on muscle power. First, the statement that ‘men are stronger than women’ is true only on average, and only with regard to certain types of strength. Women are generally more resistant to hunger, disease and fatigue than men. There are also many women who can run faster and lift heavier weights than many men. Furthermore, and most problematically for this theory, women have, throughout history, been excluded mainly from jobs that require little physical effort (such as the priesthood, law and politics), while engaging in hard manual labour in the fields, in crafts and in the household.

When we are tired or preoccupied - what psychologists call 'resource-depleted' - we start to economise, to conserve those resources. Higher-order thinking is more expensive. So too is doubt, scepticism, arugment. 'Resource depletion specifically disables cognitive elaboration,' wrote Harvard psychologist Daniel Gillbert...Because it takes less brain power to believe than to doublt, we are, when tired or distracted, gullible. Because we are all biased, and biases are quick and effortless, exhaustion tends to make us prefer the information we know and are comfortable with. We are too tired to do the heavier lifting of examining new or contradictory information, so we fall back on our biases the opinions and the people we already trust

Water was not my element. It dragged at my clothes as I swam. A little farther, I told myself. I could hear him coming, his arms stronger than mine from a lifetime of lifting marble. I felt the water shiver near my foot where he had grabbed and almost caught me. I looked back, and saw how close he was and how far the shore behind. Then his hand seized my ankle and yanked, pulling me to him like a rope, hand over hand, and then he had me up and by the throat, his face pressed to mine. I think he expected me to fight and claw. I didn’t fight. I seized him close around the ribs, holding my wrists so he could not get free. The sudden weight pulled us both under. He kicked and flailed back to the surface, but I was heavier than he had thought, and the waves slopped at our mouths. Let it be now, I prayed. At first I thought it was just the cold of the water. It crept up my fingers and my arms, which stiffed around him. He struggled and fought, but my hands were fused together and nothing he tried could break them. Then it was in my legs too, and my belly and my chest, and no matter how he kicked, he could not haul us back up to the air. He hit at me, but it was watery and weak and I felt nothing, just the solid circle of my arms, and the inexorable drag of my body. He had no chance, really. He was only flesh. We fell through the darkness, and the coolness slid up my neck and bled the color from my lips and cheeks. I thought of Paphos and how clever she was. I thought of her stone sister, peaceful on her couch. We fell through the currents and I thought of how the crabs would come for him, climbing over my pale shoulders. The ocean floor was sandy and soft as pillows. I settled into it and slept.

Because it takes less brain power to believe than to doubt, we are, when tired or distracted, gullible.25 Because we are all biased, and biases are quick and effortless, exhaustion makes us favor the information we know and are comfortable with. We’re too tired to do the heavier lifting of examining new or contradictory information, so we fall back on our biases, the opinions and the people we already trust.

It's a blue collar thing... Middle-class kids are groomed to fly away, and they do. The working class likes to keep its young close to home. Tearing a working class person from the network that defines their life is a far heavier lift than insisting that a Harvard grad move to Silicon Valley. The professional elite values change and self-development; working-class families value stability and community. The professional elite associate change with challenge, excitement, opportunity, and innovation. But for families, a few paychecks away form losing their homes and stable middle-class lives, respect for stability reigns supreme.

A boxer derives the greatest advantage from his sparring partner – and my accuser is my sparring partner. He trains me in patience, civility and even temper. [10] I mean, a doctor who puts me in a headlock and sets a dislocated pelvis or shoulder – he benefits me, however painful the procedure. So too does a trainer when he commands me to ‘lift the weight with both your hands’ – and the heavier it is, the greater the benefit to me.

At first Alexander could not believe it was his Tania. He blinked and tried to refocus his eyes. She was walking around the table, gesturing, showing, leaning forward, bending over. At one point she straightened out and wiped her forehead. She was wearing a short-sleeved yellow peasant dress. She was barefoot, and her slender legs were exposed above her knee. Her bare arms were lightly tanned. Her blonde hair looked bleached by the sun and was parted into two shoulder-length braids tucked behind her ears. Even from a distance he could see the summer freckles on her nose. She was achingly beautiful. And alive. Alexander closed his eyes, then opened them again. She was still there, bending over the boy’s work. She said something, everyone laughed loudly, and Alexander watched as the boy’s arm touched Tatiana’s back. Tatiana smiled. Her white teeth sparkled like the rest of her. Alexander didn’t know what to do. She was alive, that was obvious. Then why hadn’t she written him? And where was Dasha? Alexander couldn’t very well continue to stand under a lilac tree. He went back out onto the main road, took a deep breath, stubbed out his cigarette, and walked toward the square, never taking his eyes off her braids. His heart was thundering in his chest, as if he were going into battle. Tatiana looked up, saw him, and covered her face with her hands. Alexander watched everyone get up and rush to her, the old ladies showing unexpected agility and speed. She pushed them all away, pushed the table away, pushed the bench away, and ran to him. Alexander was paralyzed by his emotion. He wanted to smile, but he thought any second he was going to fall to his knees and cry. He dropped all his gear, including his rifle. God, he thought, in a second I’m going to feel her. And that’s when he smiled. Tatiana sprang into his open arms, and Alexander, lifting her off her feet with the force of his embrace, couldn’t hug her tight enough, couldn’t breathe in enough of her. She flung her arms around his neck, burying her face in his bearded cheek. Dry sobs racked her entire body. She was heavier than the last time he felt her in all her clothes as he lifted her into the Lake Ladoga truck. She, with her boots, her clothes, coats, and coverings, had not weighed what she weighed now. She smelled incredible. She smelled of soap and sunshine and caramelized sugar. She felt incredible. Holding her to him, Alexander rubbed his face into her braids, murmuring a few pointless words. “Shh, shh…come on, now, shh, Tatia. Please…” His voice broke. “Oh, Alexander,” Tatiana said softly into his neck. She was clutching the back of his head. “You’re alive. Thank God.” “Oh, Tatiana,” Alexander said, hugging her tighter, if that were possible, his arms swaddling her summer body. “You’re alive. Thank God.” His hands ran up to her neck and down to the small of her back. Her dress was made of very thin cotton. He could almost feel her skin through it. She felt very soft. Finally he let her feet touch the ground. Tatiana looked up at him. His hands remained around her little waist. He wasn’t letting go of her. Was she always this tiny, standing barefoot in front of him? “I like your beard,” Tatiana said, smiling shyly and touching his face. “I love your hair,” Alexander said, pulling on a braid and smiling back. “You’re messy…” He looked her over. “And you’re stunning.” He could not take his eyes off her glorious, eager, vivid lips. They were the color of July tomatoes— He bent to her—

Arren was silent, pondering this. Presently the mage said, speaking softly, “Do you see, Arren, how an act is not, as young men think, like a rock that one picks up and throws, and it hits or misses, and that’s the end of it. When that rock is lifted, the earth is lighter; the hand that bears it heavier. When it is thrown, the circuits of the stars respond, and where it strikes or falls the universe is changed. On every act the Balance of the Whole depends. The winds and seas, the powers of water and earth and light, all that these do, and all that the beasts and green things do, is well done, and rightly done. All these act within the Equilibrium. From the hurricane and the great whale’s sounding to the fall of a dry leaf and the gnat’s flight, all they do is done within the Balance of the Whole. But we, insofar as we have power over the world and over one another, we must learn to do what the leaf and the whale and the wind do of their own nature. We must learn to keep the Balance. Having intelligence, we must not act in ignorance. Having choice, we must not act without responsibility. Who am I—though I have the power to do it—to punish and reward, playing with men’s destinies?” “But then,” the boy said, frowning at the stars, “is the Balance to be kept by doing nothing? Surely a man must act, even not knowing all the consequences of his act, if anything is to be done at all?” “Never fear. It is much easier for men to act than to refrain from acting. We will continue to do good and to do evil. . . . But if there were a king over us all again and he sought counsel of a mage, as in the days of old, and I were that mage, I would say to him: My lord, do nothing because it is righteous or praiseworthy or noble to do so; do nothing because it seems good to do so; do only that which you must do and which you cannot do in any other way.

She may have discovered how to solve the problem of aviation in music. What makes an aviator what he is? An aviator is a person who deals with getting heavier-than-air objects off the ground. She could do that, musically and emotionally. She could take a feeling and actually lift it off the ground, and it would stay there.

There are houses people cannot seem to leave, even thought the doors are wide open. You feel very slightly heavier in them, the way you would on Jupiter. This is one of those houses. There is more gravity in this room than there is anywhere else on the planet, so much that I can hardly step outside it. My hands weigh a hundred pounds each and I can barely lift my head off the pillow in the mornings. The bed fills the whole room, and I lie on it and float, thinking about what I should do. The world moves its scenery back and forth in front of the window; it has nothing to do with me; it is passing me by. I lie on the bed and feel myself gently going out of print.

I’ve been wandering around the streets of New York all day. I can’t keep her savage beauty out of my mind. I wish my soul was heavier, more solid, something that could weigh itself down. I wish my soul wasn’t this feather, this ugly wisp of goose down in my pocket, lifted up and buffeted about by the wind around her flame. I feel like a moth.

You are the sun. You are powerful beyond measure. You are life-giving. You nurture those around you. You bring warmth and love to the world. You lift everyone’s mood. You are pure energy. You radiate and shine. But then the clouds come. And they feel more powerful than you. They dim your spirit and hold you back. They cause you to question your authentic self. They bring you into darkness. And make the ground feel heavier. The weight is sometimes too much to bear. But you are the sun. You are life-giving. And you are forever. And when you harness that power, the clouds have nothing to say and away they float to bring their struggle to another star. They are temporary and you are forever. You are the sun.

[Aftermath of the assassination of Tsar Alexander II in 1881] What happened to the conspirators - Zhelyabov already in prison, Perovskaya, Kibalchich and the three surviving bombers - is that they were all hanged. This last public execution to be staged in Russia took place before a crowd of some 80,000. It was the youngest of the conspirators, eighteen-year-old Rysakov, who broke down in prison, confessed, begged for mercy, exposed as many of his comrades as he could. It did not save him from the scaffold. And on the scaffold the others coldly turned away from him, exchanging last words among themselves, leaving Rysakov to die quite alone. It was the execution of the Decembrists all over again, except that one of the hanged was a woman. There was no proper drop, only stools to be kicked away, and the stools were too low for a quick kill. Worst of all, Mikhailov's noose slipped, not once, but twice. He was heavier than the executioner, who was drunk, had bargained for. He had to be lifted up and rehanged. All took some minutes to die. Russia still had not learnt even how to hang.

Fly with those who lift you up and thrust you forward A pilot friend of mine told me there are four main principles to master when flying airplanes: lift, thrust, weight, and drag. You have to take all these into account to make sure the plane will fly. It struck me that these same principles apply to specific types of people. There are some who lift you, brighten your day, cheer you up, and make you feel better about yourself. You meet them and you have a spring in your step. They’re a lift. Then there are people who thrust you. They inspire you, motivate you, challenge you to move forward and pursue your dreams. The third group are weights. They pull you down, dump their problems on you, so that you leave feeling heavier, negative, discouraged, and worse than you did before. Finally, there are those who are a drag. They’ve always got a sad song. The dishwasher broke. The goldfish died. They didn’t get invited to a party. They’re stuck in a pit. They expect you to cheer them up, fix their problems, and carry their loads. We all encounter people from each of these four groups. You have to make sure you’re spending the majority of your time with lifters and thrusters. If you’re only hanging out with weights and drags, it will keep you from becoming everything you were created to be.

The darkness does not lift but becomes yet heavier as I think how little we can hold in mind, how everything is constantly lapsing into oblivion with every extinguished life, how the world is, as it were, draining itself, in that the history of countless places and objects which themselves have no power of memory is never heard, never described or passed on. Histories, for instance, like those of the straw mattresses which lay, shadow-like, on the stacked plank beds and which had become thinner and shorter because the chaff in them disintegrated over the years, shrunken... as if they were the mortal frames of those who lay there in that darkness.

Karl was the last to be with him. He found him calm and almost gay. After he had gone, Ludwig put his few things in order and wrote for some time. Then he drew a chair to the window and set a basin with warm water on the table beside him. He locked the door, sat himself on the settle and with his arm in the water, he cut the artery. The pain was slight. He saw the blood flowing, a scene he had often thought on—to let this hateful, poisoned blood pour out of his body. His room became very clear. He saw every hook, every nail, every glint of the quartzes, the iridescence, the colours; he absorbed it: his room. It gathered about him, it passed in with his breath and was one with his life. Then it receded, uncertain. His youth began, in pictures. Eichendorff, the woods, homesickness. Reconciled, without pain. Beyond the woods rose up barbed-wire entanglements, little white shrapnel clouds, the burst of heavier shells. But they alarmed him no longer. They were muffled, almost like bells. The bells became louder, but the woods were still there. The bells pealed in his head so loudly that he felt it must burst. Then it grew darker. The pealing sounded fainter, and the evening came in at the window, clouds floated up under his feet. He had wished once in his life to see flamingoes; now he knew; these were flamingoes, with broad, pinkish-grey wings, lots of them, a phalanx—Did wild ducks not once fly so toward the very red moon, red as poppies in Flanders? —The landscape receded farther and farther, the woods sank deeper, rivers rose up, gleaming, silver, and islands; the pinkish-grey wings flew ever higher and higher, and the horizon became ever brighter—Now, suddenly, a dark cry swelled in his throat, hot, insistent, a last thought spilled over out of the brain into the failing consciousness: fear, rescue, bind it up! —He tried to rise, staggering, to lift his hand; the body jerked, but already it was too weak. —It spun round and spun round, then it vanished; and the giant bird with dark pinions came very gently with slow sweeps and the wings closed noiselessly over him. A

The Dark One didn’t cut it in the first place,” Tairn responds. “Stop calling him that.” My knee collapses, and I throw my arms out to steady my balance, cursing my joints as I reach Tairn’s shoulder. After an hour in the saddle at these temperatures, a pissed-off knee is nothing; I’m lucky my hips still rotate. “Stop denying the truth.” Tairn enunciates every word of the damning order as I avoid a patch of ice and prepare to dismount. “His soul is no longer his own.” “That’s a little dramatic.” I’m not getting into this argument again. “His eyes are back to normal—” “That kind of power is addictive. You know it, or you wouldn’t be pretending to sleep at night.” He twists his neck in a way that reminds me of a snake and levels a golden glare on me. “I’m sleeping.” It’s not entirely a lie, but definitely time to change the subject. “Did you make me repair my saddle to teach me a lesson?” My ass protests every scale on Tairn’s leg as I slide, then land in a fresh foot of snow. “Or because you don’t trust Xaden with my gear anymore?” “Yes.” Tairn lifts his head far over mine and blasts a torrent of fire along his wing, melting off the residual ice, and I turn away from the surge of heat that painfully contrasts my body temperature. “Tairn…” I struggle for words and look up at him. “I need to know where you stand before this meeting. With or without Empyrean approval, I can’t do any of this without you.” “Meaning, will I support the myriad of ways you plan to court death in the name of curing one who is beyond redemption?” He swivels his head in my direction again. Tension crackles along Andarna’s bond. “He’s not—” I cut off that particular argument, since the rest is sound. “Basically, yes.” He grumbles deep within his chest. “I fly without warming my wings in preparation for carrying heavier weight for longer distances. Does that not answer your question?” Meaning Andarna. Relief gusts through my lips on a swift exhale. “Thank you.” Steam rolls in billowing clouds from his nostrils. “But do not mistake my unflinching support of you, my mate, and Andarna for any form of faith in him.” Tairn lifts his head, cueing the end of the conversation.

You're shivering so hard the bed is shaking,' he said. 'My hair is wet,' I said. It wasn't a lie. Rhys went silent, then the mattress groaned, sinking directly behind me as his warmth poured over me. 'No expectations,' he said. 'Just body heat.' I scowled at the laughter in his voice. But his broad hands slid under and over me: one flattening against my stomach and tugging me against the hard warmth of him, the other sliding under my ribs and arms to band around my chest, pressing his front into me. He tangled his legs with mine, and then a heavier, warmer darkness settled over us, smelling of citrus and sea. I lifted a hand toward that darkness, and met with a soft, silky material- his wing, cocooning and warming me. I traced my finger along it, and he shuddered, his arms tightening around me. 'Your finger... is very cold,' he gritted out, the words hot on my neck. I tried not to smile, even as I tilted my neck a bit more, hoping the heat of his breath might caress it again. I dragged my finger along his wing, the nail scraping gently against the smooth surface. Rhys tensed, his hand splaying across his stomach. 'You cruel, wicked thing,' he purred, his nose grazing the exposed bit of neck I'd arched beneath him. 'Didn't anyone ever teach you manners?' 'I never knew Illyrians were such sensitive babies,' I said, sliding another finger down the inside of his wing.

He sat up in bed, and the dictionary was in front of him more often than the book. He looked up so many new words that when they recurred, he had forgotten their meaning and had to look them up again. He devised the plan of writing the definitions in a note book, and filled page after page with them. And still he could not understand. He read until three in the morning, and his brain was in a turmoil, but not one essential thought in the text had he grasped. He looked up, and it seemed that the room was lifting, heeling, and plunging like a ship upon the sea. Then he hurled the "Secret Doctrine" and many curses across the room, turned off the gas, and composed himself to sleep. Nor did he have much better luck with the other three books. It was not that his brain was weak or incapable; it could think these thoughts were it not for lack of training in thinking and lack of the thought tools with which to think. He guessed this, and for a while entertained the idea of reading nothing but the dictionary until he had mastered every word in it. Poetry, however, was his solace, and he read much of it, finding his greatest joy in the simpler poets, who were more understandable. He loved beauty, and there he found beauty. Poetry, like music, stirred him profoundly, and, though he did not know it, he was preparing his mind for the heavier work that was to come. The pages of his mind were blank, and, without effort, much he read and liked, stanza by stanza, was impressed upon those pages, so that he was soon able to extract great joy from chanting aloud or under his breath the music and the beauty of the printed words he had read.

Matthew knew it was wrong the instant their lips met. Because nothing would ever equal the perfection of Daisy in his arms. He was ruined for life. God help him, he didn’t care. Her mouth was soft and hot, like sunshine, like the white blaze of a heartwood fire. She gasped as he touched her lower lip with the tip of his tongue. Slowly her hands came to his shoulders, and then he felt her fingers at the back of his head, sliding into his hair to keep him from pulling away. There wasn’t a chance in hell of that happening. Nothing could have made him stop. A tremor shook his fingers as he bracketed the exquisite line of her jaw in the open framework of his hand, gently angling her face upward. The flavor of her mouth, sweet and elusive, fueled a hunger that threatened to rage out of control… he searched the damp silk beyond her lips, deeper, harder, until she began to breathe in long sighs, her body molding against his. He let her feel how much stronger he was, how much heavier, one muscular arm clamped along her back, his feet spread to hold her between the powerful length of his thighs. Her upper half was bound in a laced and padded corset. He was almost overcome by a savage desire to tear away the stays and quilting and find the tender flesh beneath. Instead he sank his fingers into her pinned-up hair and tugged it backward until the weight of her head was cradled in his hand, and her pale throat was exposed. He searched for the pulse he had seen earlier, his lips dragging softly along the secret pathway of nerves beneath her skin. When he reached a senstive spot, he felt the vibration of her suppressed moan against his mouth. This was what it would be like to make love to her, he thought dazedly… the sweet shivering of her flesh as he entered her, the delicate chaos of her breath, the helpless sounds that rustled in her throat. Her skin, warm and female, scented like tea and talcum and a trace of salt. He found her mouth again, opened it, delving into wet silk, heat, and an intimate flavor that drove him mad. She should have struggled, but there was only yielding and more softness, driving him past all limits. He began to ravish her mouth with deep, twisting kisses, bringing her body rhythmically against his. He felt her legs part beneath her gown, his thigh fitting neatly between them. She squirmed with innocent desire, her face blooming with the color of late summer poppies. Had she understood exactly what he wanted from her, she would have done more than blush. She would have fainted on the spot. Lifting his mouth from hers, Matthew pressed his jaw against the side of her head. “I think,” he said raggedly, “this puts to rest any question of whether I find you desirable or not.

Do you see, Arren, how an act is not, as young men think, like a rock that one picks up and throws, and it hits or misses, and that’s the end of it. When that rock is lifted, the earth is lighter; the hand that bears it heavier. When it is thrown, the circuits of the stars respond, and where it strikes or falls the universe is changed. On every act the Balance of the Whole depends.

I’ve been wandering around the streets of New York all day. I can’t keep her savage beauty out of my mind. I wish my soul was heavier, more solid, something that could weigh itself down. I wish my soul wasn’t this feather, this ugly wisp of goose down in my pocket, lifted up and buffeted about by the wind around her flame. I feel like a moth.

Generally perform no more than five reps per set in various presses and side bends. It is better to increase the difficulty by upgrading to a heavier kettlebell, selecting a more difficult press (e.g. the military rather than the side press), moving slower, pausing at different points of the lift, compressing the rest periods between the sets, or performing more sets of five reps. Use the above techniques by themselves or in any sensible combination.

Just don’t work more than you got to. I got a motto that kept me sane during all those years in the minin’ industry, and that’s – don’t lift nothin’ heavier than a spoon if you ain’t paid for it.

Do you see, Arren, how an act is not, as young men think, like a rock that one picks up and throws, and it hits or misses, and that’s the end of it. When that rock is lifted, the earth is lighter; the hand that bears it heavier. When it is thrown, the circuits of the stars respond, and where it strikes or falls the universe is changed. On every act the Balance of the Whole depends. The winds and seas, the powers of water and earth and light, all that these do, and all that the beasts and green things do, is well done, and rightly done. All these act within the Equilibrium. From the hurricane and the great whale’s sounding to the fall of a dry leaf and the gnat’s flight, all they do is done within the Balance of the Whole. But we, insofar as we have power over the world and over one another, we must learn to do what the leaf and the whale and the wind do of their own nature. We must learn to keep the Balance. Having intelligence, we must not act in ignorance. Having choice, we must not act without responsibility. Who am I—though I have the power to do it—to punish and reward, playing with men’s destinies?

Researchers investigated people who exercised, and found that those who wore red had higher average heart rates and could lift heavier weights, indicating they were working harder than those wearing blue. While both groups reported similar rates of exertion, those wearing red clothing had better performance.

The Wrights used incrementalization to break the big problem of heavier-than-air flight into smaller component pieces. Then, they quickly advanced their understanding bit by bit. Each step supported each subsequent step of inquiry. They believed they couldn’t think their way to the right answer; instead, they experimented relentlessly with great frequency and at low cost. The Wright brothers were unabating experimenters. Their experiments included model gliders flown like kites, months spent with gliders at Kitty Hawk modifying structures and flight controls while gaining flying experience, a self-fabricated wind tunnel in which they could test scale models of airfoils to better understand how to generate lift, etc.

Even now,” says the title character in W. G. Sebald’s novel Austerlitz, “when I try to remember…the darkness does not lift but becomes yet heavier as I think how little we can hold in mind, how everything is constantly lapsing into oblivion with every extinguished life, how the world is, as it were, draining itself, in that the history of countless places and objects which themselves have no power of memory is never heard, never described or passed on.

For spring and summer, Dina baked delicate and light pastries fragranced with rosewater, meskouta orange bundt cake, and delicate raspberry macarons. When strawberries were in season in early June, she made airy fraisier cake. For autumn and winter, Dina worked with heavier ingredients: thick, dark chocolate, cinnamon, cardamom, gingerbread, and pumpkin. As the days grew colder and the light dimmed earlier and earlier, people started to crave that feeling of warmth and comfort. And Dina would give that to them, even if only for a short while. One special bake for this season was a ginger and persimmon cake, yellowed with saffron strands, which Dina had bought on her last trip to Morocco, and fresh vanilla pods, their sweet scent so potent that it wafted across the café. This was in addition to all the regular pastries and cakes she had on offer, which were all recipes her mother had taught her to bake. The cake made with dark honey from the Atlas mountains was an all-time customer favorite. Dina had imbibed it with a very specific spell, a childhood memory of a time that she must have fallen asleep on a car ride home, and although she was a little too big to be carried, she remembered her father lifting her into his arms, her mother closing the car door softly so as not to wake her, then carrying her upstairs and tucking her into bed. When she'd been fashioning the spell for the first time, it had occurred to Dina that one day your parents put you down and they never picked you up again, and so she'd made the honey cake to recreate that feeling of childhood comfort. That sensation of someone taking the utmost care of you, holding you close, was a feeling that many in the rushing city of London didn't experience often. Sometimes she wondered if she was really in the business of café ownership, or if she was more of a fairy godmother in disguise. Undeniably, the magical pastries were great at keeping customers coming back for more, so that was a bonus on the businesswoman side of things.

I didn’t lose the war, nor did the men who fought it. The high command lost the war. And after the war was over, they didn’t stand up for us. Veterans had to build their own memorial—with their own initiative, time, and money. Congress had to pass a bill so we could have this memorial; all they had to do was lift a pen to their fingers. But almost three million men and women who served in Vietnam lifted things far heavier—and carried those things every day, long after the war was over.

Brusco had a bad back, and could not lift anything heavier than a tankard of brown ale.

Melinda, what are you doing?” he asked, unzipping his jeans to take them off and take a shower of his own. “Nothing,” she said, averting her eyes. He frowned and stepped toward her. He lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “Were you covering up? In front of me?” he asked, astonished. “Jack, I’m going to pot,” she said, cinching the towel tighter. “What?” he asked, laughter in his voice. “What are you talking about?” She took a deep breath. “My boobs are drooping, my butt fell into my thighs, I have a potbelly, and if that’s not bad enough, I’m so covered with stretch marks, I look like a deflated balloon.” She put a hand against his rock-hard chest. “You’re eight years older than I am and you’re in perfect shape.” He started to laugh. “I thought you were trying to cover a tattoo or something. Mel, I didn’t have two children, a year apart. Emma’s only a few months old. Give yourself a little time, huh?” “I can’t help it. I miss my old body.” “Oh-oh,” he said, putting his arms around her. “If you’re thinking like that, I’m not doing my job.” “But it’s true,” she said, laying her head against the soft mat of hair on his chest. “Mel, you are more beautiful every day. I love your body.” “It’s not what it was…” “Hmm. But it’s better,” he said. He tugged at the towel and she hung on. “Come on,” he said. She let go and he pulled it away. “Ah,” he said, smiling down at her. “This body is amazing to me—incredible. More lush and irresistible every day.” “You can’t mean that,” she said. “But I do.” He leaned down and touched her lips with his, one hand on her breast, the other moving smoothly down her back and over her bottom. “This body has given me so much—I worship this body.” He lifted her breast slightly. “Look,” he said. “I can’t bear it,” she complained. “Look, Mel. Look in the mirror. Sometimes when I see you like this, uncovered, I can’t breathe. Every small change just makes you better, more delicious to me. You can’t think I’d have anything but complete admiration for the body that gave me my children. You give me so much pleasure, sometimes I think I might be losing my mind. Baby, you’re perfect.” “I’m twenty pounds heavier than when you met me,” she said. He laughed at her. “What are you now? A size four?” “You don’t know anything. It’s much more than a four. We’re headed for double digits…” “God above,” he said. “Twenty more pounds for me to gobble up.” “What if I just keep getting fatter and fatter?” “Will you still be in there? Because it’s you I love. I love your body, Mel, because it’s you. You understand that, right?” “But…” “If I had an accident that blew my legs off, would you stop loving me, wanting me?” “Of course not! That’s not the same thing!” “We’re not our bodies. We’ve been lucky with our bodies, but we’re more than that.” “It was my butt in a pair of jeans that got your attention….” “My love for you is a lot deeper than that, and you know it. However—” he grinned “—you still knock me out in those jeans. If you’ve gained twenty pounds, it went to all the right places.” “I’m thinking—tummy tuck,” she said. “What nonsense,” he said, leaning down to cover her mouth in a bold and serious kiss.

Max spread my legs and knelt between them. The tip of his cock pressed against my hole and a shiver ran down my spine. “Oh, fuck. I’ve been thinking about this since the last time.” I had been. The thought of his dick up my ass was firmly rooted in the back of my mind no matter my task. “You mean last night?” He snorted. I lifted my head and saw his reflection; he was smiling. “I…” Max pressed his tip inside me. Yeah, I completely forgot what I was going to say. My whole body clenched up and then relaxed as he gently coaxed his length deeper. “Fuck it all to Earth, that feels amazing.” He kept pushing forward, slowly piercing me. “Yes, yes it does.” I grunted when he went deeper, spreading, filling, overpowering. Then Max leaned over me. He practically laid on me, his front pressed along my back. His hands stretched out, falling over mine and our hands twined together. Being that I was shorter it was the perfect position to hold my hands and fuck me. He softly placed kisses along my shoulder and licked my earlobe. “Elric. I love you.” Those words made me smile as wide as I could. He loved me! Max eased his cock out and then back in. His pace was completely controlled, forcing me to experience unending pleasure as his words swirled in my head. “Max,” I muttered against the blankets. Each thrust made my dick slid against the pants under my hips. I squeezed his hands harder as he humped me. His teeth grazed the back of my neck. He was breathing heavier. His movements were a bit more rushed. My cock was swelling to the brim. Between his beautiful length stabbing me and my dick rubbing along that material, I was going to blow. I could feel the tension building. My balls were tight to my body, the pressure too much. I moaned, meeting Max thrust for thrust. He groaned in my ear. Our warm bodies squirmed against each other. “Oh, yes. Please. Yes.” It felt so good. I had to come. Please, I’m so close. Almost. Almost there. Max went deep in one long, slightly painful move. The mixture sent me right over the edge. I let out a moan too low to hear as my orgasm spilled out. Even as I rutted against the pants Max held still, holding my hands and letting me ride the wave of pleasure. I was in sensation overload as cum sprayed out of my slit. Warm and sticky, I thrusted one last time and then collapsed. Max started again, slowly working his way deeper and then pulling out. Once, twice, then three times. I counted each move as I closed my eyes and savored the feeling of his body over mine. He was like a cocoon of warmth and … cock. Yeah, that sounded accurate. “Max.” He started moving faster, his length slipping in and out of my ass. “Max.” He squeezed my hands and kissed my shoulder. “Max.” He came, his body erupting behind me as he started in a fit of groans. They echoed in the room as he emptied into me. When he slowed to a stop, we both laid there a moment.

The woman sat up in the saddle, looked straight ahead, and began reciting a litany of steps. “I use a slightly increased pushing pressure with my lower leg and seat bone on the same side,” the woman said. “I sit slightly heavier on the inside seat bone, with my inside leg just behind the girth. Doing that should push the hindquarters forward and sideways at the same time.” “Okay. . . ” I started. “I apply that aid at the moment when the inside hind leg is lifted off the ground to start a forward-sideways step,” she continued. “I also put my outside leg in a guarding position behind the girth, blocking her from moving her quarters too far sideways and maintaining the forward movement at the same time.” “I see.” “My inside leg drives, while the outside leg controls.” She hesitated for a second, as if trying to remember the rest. “I guide the forehand along the wall with the outside rein. By supporting with the outside leg, I should be able to keep her from rushing away from the inside leg. The supporting outside rein prevents any falling out over the outside shoulder.” I waited this time to see if there was more. There was. “Ultimately, I’m trying to get her to be flexed away from the direction we are moving and her forehand guided in a shallow turn to align with the hindquarters.” She finally turned and looked back down at me. “Her inside legs should pass and cross in front of her outside legs.” She smiled. “Okay.” I nodded. “And how are you both doing with all of that?” “Not very well.” “Fair enough.” I nodded again. “So let’s try something a little different.

Then he moved, rotating his hips in slow, smooth circles. Katherine shut her eyes with a low groan at this new experience. How could something so simple feel so devilishly good? Yet it did. And it was feeling better by the second. He circled and thrust, fast and slow until she found her hips rising to meet him. She clenched her hands into fists against the solid planes of muscle across his back. Her breathing came heavier, but so did his, rasping like music to her ears as she realized he was fighting for control as much as she was. As he thrust faster, the pleasure rose again. Her muscles trembled, her hips lifted uncontrollably and moans she couldn't hold back were ripped from her lips. They built ever closer and closer to a moment. She knew it was coming, but didn't know what it was. Only that she wanted it more than she could remember wanting anything in her life. She craved release, but also that he wouldn't stop. And then she couldn't think at all as the bubble of pleasure that had been building inside her burst free. She wailed low and loud as she collapsed back on the pillows. Dominic gripped Katherine's shoulders as she thrashed out a release so powerful he felt it coursing through his own body. Somehow he managed to keep his rhythm, bringing her along as far as he could before he lost all control and joined her, pouring into her with a hoarse cry that echoed in the room around them.

What drives muscle growth, then? The answer is known as progressive tension overload, which means progressively increasing tension levels in the muscle fibers over time. That is, lifting progressively heavier and heavier weights. You see, muscles must be given a powerful reason to grow, and nothing is more convincing than subjecting them to more and more mechanical stress and tension.2

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By afternoon Jack found her down on her hands and knees scouring the bathroom floor around the toilet and tub. “For the love of God,” he said. “What?” “What the hell are you doing? If you want the bathroom cleaned, why don’t you just tell me? I know how to clean a goddamn bathroom.” “It wasn’t all that dirty, but since I’m in the cleaning mood, I thought I’d whip it into shape.” “David is ready for his nap. Why don’t you join him.” “I don’t feel like a nap. I’m going to vacuum the area rugs.” “No, you’re not,” he said. “I’ll do that if it has to be done right now.” “Okay,” Mel said, smiling. “I’ve been tricked.” “Only by yourself, darling,” she said, whirling away to get the Pledge and Windex. After that was done—and there was a lot of wood and glass and stainless steel to occupy her—she was sweeping off the porch and back steps. Not long after that, she was caught dragging the cradle into the master bedroom. “Melinda!” he shouted, startling her and making her jump. “Jack! Don’t do that!” “Let go of that thing!” He brushed her out of the way and grabbed the cradle. “Where do you want it?” “Right there,” she said. He put it beside the bed. “No,” she said. “Over there, kind of out of the way.” He put it there. “No,” she said. “Against that wall—we’ll put it where we need it when she comes.” He moved it again. “Thank you,” she said. The phone rang. “I’ll get it,” he said. He picked up a pencil and put it in her face. “If you lift anything heavier than this, I’m going to beat you.” Then he turned and left the room. He has cabin fever, she thought. Spending too much time at home with me, making sure I don’t pick up anything heavier than a pencil. He should get out more, and out of my hair. When Jack was done with the phone, she was on her knees in front of the hearth, brushing out the barely used fireplace. “Aw, Jesus Christ,” he said in frustration. “Can that not wait until at least frickin’ winter?” She sat back on her heels. “You are really getting on my last nerve. Don’t you have somewhere you can go?” “No, but we do. Go shower and get beautiful. Paul and Vanessa are back and after they view the prom couple, they’re going to the bar for dinner. We’ll all meet there, look at some pictures.” “Great,” she said. “I’m in the mood for a beer.” “Whatever you want, Melinda,” he said tiredly. “Just stop this frickin’ cleaning.” “You know I’m not going to be able to do much of this after the baby comes, so it’s good to have it all done. And the way I like it.” “You’ve always been good at cleaning. Why couldn’t you just cook?” he asked. “You don’t cook anything.” “You cook.” She smiled. “How many cooks does one house need?” “Just go shower. You have fireplace ash on your nose.” “Pain in the ass,” she said to him, getting clumsily to her feet. “Ditto,” he said. An

Before she could take a step, he lifted her and carried her into the house. “What are you doing? I can walk, put me down.” “It’s good luck to carry the bride over the threshold of her new home,” Davis said, grinning. “Have you looked at me?” Emma patted her stomach. “I’m no bride.” “Yes, you are, darlin’, you’re my bride and this is our home.” Then he kissed her gently and set her on her feet. “But,” he added with laughter in his eyes, “you’re a mite heavier than you were when we said those vows on the wagon train.” He ducked as she swatted at him.

Do you see, Arren, how an act is not, as young men think, like a rock that one picks up and throws, and it hits or misses, and that's the end of it. When that rock is lifted the earth is lighter, the hand that bears it heavier. When it is thrown the circuits of the stars respond, and where it strikes or falls the universe is changed.

the statement that men are stronger than women’ is true only on average, and only with regard to certain types of strength. Women are generally more resistant to hunger, disease and fatigue than men. There are also many women who can run faster and lift heavier weights than many men. Furthermore, and most problematically for this theory, women have, throughout history, been excluded mainly from jobs that require little physical effort (such as the priesthood, law and politics), while engaging in hard manual labour in the fields, in crafts and in the household. If social power were divided in direct relation to physical strength or stamina, women should have got far more of it. Even more importantly, there simply is no direct relation between physical strength and social power among humans. People in their sixties usually exercise power over people in their twenties, even though twentysomethings are much stronger than their elders.

You see, Arren, how an act is not, as young men think, like a rock that one picks up and throws, and it hits or misses, and that's the end of it? When that rock is lifted, the earth is lighter, the hand that bears it heavier. When it is thrown, the circuits of the stars respond, and where it strikes or falls, the universe is changed. On every act the balance of the whole depends.

She grew flowers in it. As I wash my mother’s face, I tell her how beautiful she is, how brave, how her beauty and bravery live on in her grandchildren. Her face is relaxed, peaceful. Her earth memory body has not left yet, but when I see her the next day, embalmed and in the casket in the funeral home, it will be gone. Where does it go? It is heavier than the spirit who lifted up and flew. I think of it making the rounds to every place it has loved to say goodbye. Goodbye to the house where I brought my babies home, she sings. Goodbye to June’s Bar where I was the shuffleboard queen. I cannot say goodbye yet. I will never say goodbye.

There are houses people cannot seem to leave, even though the doors are wide open. You feel very slightly heavier in them, the way you would on Jupiter. This is one of those houses. There is more gravity in this room than there is anywhere else on the planet, so much that I can hardly step outside it. My hands weigh a hundred pounds each and I can barely lift my head off the pillow in the mornings. The bed fills the whole room, and I lie on it and float, thinking about what I should do. The world moves its scenery back and forth in front of the window; it has nothing to do with me; it is passing me by. I lie on the bed and feel myself gently going out of print.

Under stress, the SNS dominates, causing us to hold in our breath. A deep exhale activates the PNS, restoring calm. That’s why yogic breathing is so relaxing.45 Stress also makes our heart race by contracting it. The PNS lifts the SNS off the heart so it can relax and pump blood. However, the SNS grows heavier as the stressor intensifies. At some point, the SNS becomes too heavy for the PNS to lift, and the PNS taps out. For example, during an all-out sprint, this is the point of volitional exhaustion when you feel like your heart is about to explode. Regular exercise strengthens the PNS, and it gains with every workout.46 Eventually, the PNS can lift heavier and heavier SNS loads. Now, you’re physically stronger and can push your body faster and harder than ever before.47 You’re also mentally stronger and less reactive to everyday stressors.48 More active. Less moody. Less inflamed. Less depressed. Finally, you are at the root of the problem.

They lift the rug once I step off it. Following the three poor girls before me, I drop to my knees, crawling deeper and deeper toward the center. My gag reflex kicks in when the rug falls, pinning me to the floor. It’s heavier than it looks... reeking of puke, piss, and sweat. It smells like desperation and shattered dreams. Like the worst nightmare.

One great way to get strong faster is to pick a weight (heavier!) or a speed (slower!) that stops you at 6 reps—but instead of lifting 6 times, lift 5. Avoiding the sixth rep reduces the micro muscle tears that you need to recover from when building muscle. If you’re hell-bent on getting strong fast, you can repeat the exercise several times a week, with no need for recovery, and if you add this kind of workout to your regular ones, you’ll be clearly, obviously, visibly stronger in a month.

Sometimes even a minor achievement such as lifting a slightly heavier weight at the gym makes me incredibly happy. At the same time, bad news affects me to a far greater extent than it does my partner and friends.

So if you’ve always lifted in the 10-to-12 or 15-to-20 repetition range, it’s time to change that up. Drop those reps into the three-to-six range and lift heavier weights to improve your muscle integrity, build strength, and be healthier through menopause and beyond.

Aramida opened her eyes and lifted her head slowly, looking around the space they were in as if seeing it for the first time. The books seemed to hold more meaning now; they were heavier, more present in her mind. Where before the sheer volume of them had appeared overwhelming, now her hands seemed itching to reached out and take just one and open it to see what world awaited inside.

The incremental weight increase from one workout to the next is so small that you won’t feel a noticeable difference in the weight you lift compared to the previous session. However, over time, these small increments add up, leading to significant increases in the amount of weight lifted. This type of progression helps you build confidence with heavier weights and consistently surpass your previous personal records in each session, all thanks to these small, incremental weight increases.

Although, an increase in intensity does not necessarily mean lifting a heavier weight in order to recruit the largest muscle fibers. When you lift a light enough weight, slow-twitch muscle fibers are initially recruited. As these fibers fatigue and are unable to sustain the required force, additional fibers are recruited. If you continue this light weight set close to muscular failure, eventually all available muscle fibers are activated and engaged in the work.

The most common theory points to the fact that men are stronger than women, and that they have used their greater physical power to force women into submission … There are two problems with this emphasis on muscle power. First, the statement that ‘men are stronger than women’ is true only on average, and only with regard to certain types of strength. Women are generally more resistant to hunger, disease and fatigue than men. There are also many women who can run faster and lift heavier weights that many men. Furthermore, and most problematically for this theory, women have, throughout history, been excluded mainly from jobs that require little physical effort (such as the priesthood, law and politics), while engaging in hard manual labour in the fields, in crafts and in the household. If social power were divided in direct relation to physical strength or stamina, women should have got far more of it. Even more importantly, there simply is no direct relation between physical strength and social power among humans. People in their sixties usually exercise power over people in their twenties, even though twentysomethings are much stronger than their elders. The typical plantation owner in Alabama in the mid-nineteenth century could have been wrestled to the ground in seconds by any of the slaves cultivating his cotton fields. Boxing matches were not used to select Egyptian pharaohs or Catholic popes. In forager societies, political dominance generally resides with the person possessing the best social skills rather than the most developed musculature. In organized crime, the big boss is not necessarily the strongest man. He is often an older man who very rarely uses his own fists; he gets younger and fitter men to do the dirty jobs for him. A guy who thinks that the way to take over the syndicate is to beat up the don is unlikely to live long enough to learn from his mistake … In fact, human history shows that there is often an inverse relation between physical prowess and social power … If all that counted were raw physical abilities, Sapiens would have found themselves on a middle rung of the ladder. But their mental and social skills placed them at the top. It is therefore only natural that the chain of power within the species will also be determined by mental and social abilities more than by brute force. Consequently it sounds improbable that the most influential and most stable social hierarchy in history is founded on men’s ability physically to coerce women … … One can’t reasonably argue that their physical weakness or low testosterone levels prevented women from being successful mandarins, generals and politicians. In order to manage a war, you surely need stamina, but not much physical strength or aggressiveness. Wars are not a pub brawl. They are very complex projects that require an extraordinary degree of organization, cooperation and appeasement. The ability to maintain peace at home, acquire allies abroad, and understand what goes through the minds of other people (particularly your enemies) is usually the key to victory. Hence an aggressive brute is often the worst choice to run a war. Much better is a cooperative person who knows how to appease, how to manipulate and how to see things from different perspectives … Women are often stereotyped as better manipulators and appeasers than men, and are famed for their superior ability to see things from the perspective of others. If there’s any truth in these stereotypes, then women should have made excellent politicians and empire-builders, leaving the dirty work on the battlefields to testosterone-charged but simple-minded machos. Popular myths notwithstanding, this rarely happened in the real world… … How did it happen that in the one species whose success depends above all on cooperation, individuals who are supposedly less cooperative (men) control individuals who are supposedly more cooperative (women)?

Sad Nona is always heartbreaking. Her mood usually lifts everyone’s, so when she’s down, the whole room feels heavier in a way.

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How to Effectively Buy Google Map Reviews Online Hey, you - yeah, the one running that cozy coffee shop or fixing bikes in your garage. Ever fire up Google Maps, hunt for "best latte nearby," and watch trucks of trucks zoom by with walls of shiny 5-star reviews? Makes you think, "Whoa, if I had those, folks would flock to me!" Right? In 2025, with half of all Google searches being local hunts, those reviews aren't just nice words - they're your ticket to the top of the map. But here's the twist: What if you searched "buy Google Map reviews" and dropped some cash for instant stars? Tempting, huh? Like grabbing a shortcut through the woods instead of hiking the trail. If You want to more information just contact now 24 Hours Reply/ Contact : – ◪ Telegram: @accsells1 ◪ WhatsApp: ‪‪+1 (814) 403–6336‬‬ ◪ E-mail: infoaccsells0@gmail.com I've chatted with tons of owners like you, sweating over empty profiles while big chains sparkle. It stings. But let's keep it real - buying Google Map reviews is like sneaking cookies before dinner. Feels sneaky good at first, but the tummy ache hits hard. Google's bots are sharper than ever in October 2025, and the fines? Oof. In this easy-breezy guide (we're talking 7000 words of straight talk, no fluff), we'll spill why that quick fix flops, share scary stories from shops that tried it, and hand you the keys to earning real raves that lift your map rank for good. Imagine your spot popping up first every time - that's the goal. Sound fun? Let's map it out, step by step. What Exactly Are Google Map Reviews and Why Should You Care? Okay, let's start super simple, like explaining kickball to a newbie. Google Map reviews are those quick notes folks leave after visiting your place. They tap stars - one grumpy cloud to five sunny smiles - add a few words, maybe a pic of your killer sandwich, and boom, it shows up on your Google Business Profile (GBP). That's the free spot Google gives every biz to shine on Maps. Why care? Because in 2025, 83% of peeps check these before picking a spot. It's like your biz getting a megaphone in a noisy crowd. No reviews? You're whispering. A bunch of happy ones? You're shouting with confetti. They build trust fast - think of it as neighbors chatting over the fence, saying, "Hey, this place rocks!" The Simple Breakdown of Stars, Words, and Pics Stars are the headline grabber. A 4.5 average makes searchers go, "Ooh, solid!" But words? That's the heart. Not "nice shop," but "Grabbed the blueberry muffin - warm, crumbly heaven with a coffee chaser. Back next week!" Specifics like that make it feel real, like a buddy's tip. Pics seal the deal - a snap of that muffin? Doubles the wow, cutting doubts in half. Ever skip a spot with no photos? Me too. These bits team up to make your map pin irresistible. How They Pop Up in Everyday Searches Picture a rainy day: Someone types "cozy cafe near me." Your pin lights up with 4.8 stars, a fresh review snippet ("Rainy day savior!"), and a steamy latte pic. Click city! In 2025, these show right in search results, not buried. It's your biz waving hello before they even zoom in. Ignore 'em? You're invisible in the rain. How Google Map Reviews Supercharge Your Local SEO Game Alright, let's geek out a tad - but keep it light, promise. SEO? Just fancy talk for getting found easy on Google. Map reviews? They're rocket fuel for that. In the Local Pack - that top-three box on searches - reviews crank up your "prominence," one of Google's big three factors (with relevance and distance). More real ones? Higher you climb, like stairs to a better view. Why? They tell Google's algo, "This spot's buzzing - fresh, loved, legit." In 2025, with AI overhauls, reviews weigh even heavier, shaping 15–20% of ranks. One extra star? Bumps revenue 9%. Crazy, right?

Mark has three crates of vinyl records, each weighing around sixty pounds, that need to be moved from his apartment to the elevator. He can only carry one crate at a time, and the journey involves keeping both the apartment door and the elevator door open. If the apartment door closes, it will lock him out, leaving the remaining crates stranded. If the elevator door closes, the elevator will leave, and Mark will have to summon it again—hoping that his prized possessions aren’t swiped by another tenant. Solution: Mark hoists the first crate and carries it to the apartment door, wedging it in the doorway to keep it ajar. He returns to the apartment, lifts the second crate—which oddly feels heavier, though he knows it isn’t—and carries it to the elevator, using it to prop the elevator door open. Back in the apartment, Mark braces himself for the third crate, lifts, grunts, and shuffles it to the elevator, setting it down inside. He returns to the apartment door, retrieves the first crate, and carries it to the elevator. Now, for the final act: a precise kick to the crate propping the elevator door open. If his aim is true, it will slide inside the elevator. If not, his lumbar will pay the price. With all three crates secured in the elevator, Mark presses “Lobby,” catching his breath and trying not to think about the fact that he’s about to have to repeat this process in reverse. And into a taxi.