Water Refill Quotes

and I get refill number three or four and the wine is making my bones loose and it's giving my hair a red sheen and my breasts are blooming and my eyes feel sultry and wise and the dress is water.

Here’s something about Mom: she’s bad with annoyances, but great in a crisis. If a waiter doesn’t refill her water after she’s asked three times, or she forgets her dark glasses when the sun comes out, look out! But when it comes to something truly bad happening, Mom plugs into this supreme calm.

How you refill. Lying there. Something like happiness, just like water, pure and clear pouring in. So good you don’t even welcome it, it runs through you in a bright stream, as if it has been there all along.

This was the kind of guy who should be someone's first love. Someone who brought you flowers and refilled your water glass without your having to ask. Someone who watched you across the crowded rooms just to make sure you were okay. Someone who loved you quietly from a distance, without pressuring you or wanting you to change.

Everyone in America is extremely concerned with hydration. Go more than five minutes without drinking, and you’ll surely be discovered behind a potted plant, dried out like some escaped hermit crab. When I was young no one would think to bring a bottle of water into a classroom. I don’t think they even sold bottled water. We survived shopping trips without it, and funerals. Now, though, you see people with those barrels that Saint Bernards carry around their necks in cartoons, lugging them into the mall and the movie theater, then hogging the fountains in order to refill them. Is that really necessary?

But here, it’s only us. Our lips find a rhythm; the gentle upswing of a pendulum, dropping away to the lightest curve, again and again, until there’s nothing left for me in this world but his body, mine, and the water spilling over us, destined to refill a cloud. He

Everything I do is dictated by my relationship with other people, and I mostly like that about myself. I’m a good daughter, friend, neighbour, teacher, even colleague – I mean, I always take time to re-fill the water cooler when its nearing empty. But there’s one relationship I’ve neglected my whole life: my relationship with myself

Because I never wanted you to know!' Alastair burst out. 'Because I wanted you to have a childhood, a thing I never had. I wanted you to be able to love and respect your father as I never could. Every time he made a mess, who do you think had to clean it up? Who told you Father was ill or sleeping when he was drunk? Who went out and fetched him when he passed out in a gin palace and smuggled him in through the back door? Who learned at ten years old to refill the brandy bottles with water each morning so no one would notice the levels had sunk—?' He broke off, breathing hard.

Living with Kit was like living in a pixie nest. Every night, I’d find my phone charger relocated to my nightstand and my water bottle beside it, refilled at the precise temperature I liked. Dates circled themselves on the calendar. Fresh flowers appeared whenever the old ones wilted. And no matter how carelessly I unloaded the dishwasher, when I checked the back of the utensil drawer, the measuring spoons were always there.

Mr. Lisbon knew his parental and neighborly duty entailed putting the retainer in a Ziploc bag, calling the Kriegers, and telling them their expensive orthodontal device was in safe keeping. Acts like theses -- simple, humane, conscientious, forgiving -- held life together. Only a few days earlier he would have been able to perform them. But now he took the retainer and dropped it in the toiler. He pressed the handle. The retainer, jostled int he surge, disappeared down the porcelain throat, and, when waters abated, floated triumphantly, mockingly, out, Mr. Lisbon waited for the tank to refill and flushed again, but the same thing happened. The replica of the boy's mouth clung to the white slope.

Here’s something about Mom: she’s bad with annoyances, but great in a crisis. If a waiter doesn’t refill her water after she’s asked three times, or she forgets her dark glasses when the sun comes out, look out! But when it comes to something truly bad happening, Mom plugs into this supreme calm. I think she got it from all those years half living at Children’s because of me. I’m just saying, when things are bad, there’s nobody better to have in your corner than Mom.

Everyone in America is extremely concerned with hydration. Go more than five minutes without drinking, and you’ll surely be discovered behind a potted plant, dried out like some escaped hermit crab. When I was young no one would think to bring a bottle of water into a classroom. I don’t think they even sold bottled water. We survived shopping trips without it, and funerals. Now, though, you see people with those barrels that Saint Bernards carry around their necks in cartoons, lugging them into the mall and the movie theater, then hogging the fountains in order to refill them. Is that really necessary? I think as I stand behind them with an aspirin dissolving in my mouth, fuming.

Sometimes, I feel discriminated against, but it does not make me angry. It merely astonishes me. How can any deny themselves the pleasure of my company? It's beyond me. But in the main, I feel like a brown bag of miscellany propped against a wall. Against a wall In company with other bags, white, red and yellow. Pour out the contents, and there is discovered a jumble of small, things priceless and worthless. A first water diamond, an empty spool bits of broken glass, lengths of string, a key to a door long since crumbled away, a rusty knife-blade, old shoes saved for a road that never was and never will be, a nail bent under the weight of things too heavy for any nail, a dried flower or two still a little fragrant. in your hand is the brown bag. On the ground before you is the jumble it held so much like the jumble in the bags could they be emptied that all might be dumped in a single heap and the bags refilled without altering the content of any greatly. A bit of colored glass more or less would not matter. Perhaps that is how the Great Stuffer of Bags filled them in the first place, who knows?

It is the way in which the Dark returns, Harrier. I will explain, if you like." "Oh, no," Harrier said. "I'd much rather not know a thing about what we're facing. Let me get dressed first." A few minutes later Harrier came back, dressed for the day. He made another cup of hot cordial for Tiercel, refilled the kettle and started the water brewing for tea, and set some dried fruit to soak for griddle-cakes. "Okay. Now. Ruin my day," he invited.

I like literature," I said. "We started watching the film version of Romeo and Juliet today." I didn't tell them this, but the love story fascinated me. The way the lovers fell so deeply and irrevocably in love after their first meeting sparked a burning curiosity in me about what human love might feel like. "How are you finding that?" Ivy asked. "It's very powerful, but the teacher got really mad when one of the boys said something about Lady Capulet." "What did he say?" "He called her a MILF, which must be offensive because Miss Castle called him a thug and sent him out of the room. Gabe, what is a MILF?" Ivy smothered her smile behind a napkin while Gabriel did something I'd never seen before. He blushed and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Some acronym for a teenage obscnity, I imagine," he mumbled. "Yes, but do you know what it means?" He paused, trying to find the right words. "It's a term used by adolescent males to describe a woman who is both attractive and a mother." He cleared his throat and got up quickly to refill the water jug. "I'm sure it must stand for something," I pressed. "It does," Gabriel said. "Ivy, can you remeber what it is?" "I believe it stands for 'mother I'd like to...befriend'," said my sister. "Is that all?" I exclaimed. "What a fuss over nothing. I really think Miss Castle needs to chill.

She meant that they'd never used words like "separation" and "divorce" even in their worst screaming matches. They yelled things like, "You're infuriating!" "You don't think!" "You are the most annoying woman in the history of annoying women!" "I hate you!" "I hate you more!" and they always, always used the word "always," even though Clementine's mother had said you should never use that word in an argument with your spouse, as in, for example, "You always forget to refill the water jug!" (But Sam did always forget. It was accurate.)

Thus soaking, filtering, spreading, it saturates the permeable rock to form a subterranean lake: an aquifer. To create a water well, dig a hole far enough into the ground to penetrate below the surface of this aquifer; your hole will fill to the level of that surface—the water table—and refill as water is withdrawn.

In the desert you always need water,' [Selethen] told [Horace]. 'A wise traveller never goes past a chance to refill his water skins.' 'Is there nowhere else they could do this?' Halt asked. Selethen tapped another mark into the sand with his dagger. 'There are the Orr-San Wells, he said. 'They're smaller and not as reliable.

Every dish I cooked exhumed a memory. Every scent and taste brought me back for a moment to an unravaged home. Knife-cut noodles in chicken broth took me back to lunch at Myeondong Gyoja after an afternoon of shopping, the line so long it filled a flight of stairs, extended out the door, and wrapped around the building. The kalguksu so dense from the rich beef stock and starchy noodles it was nearly gelatinous. My mother ordering more and more refills of their famously garlic-heavy kimchi. My aunt scolding her for blowing her nose in public. Crispy Korean fried chicken conjured bachelor nights with Eunmi. Licking oil from our fingers as we chewed on the crispy skin, cleansing our palates with draft beer and white radish cubes as she helped me with my Korean homework. Black-bean noodles summoned Halmoni slurping jjajangmyeon takeout, huddled around a low table in the living room with the rest of my Korean family. I drained an entire bottle of oil into my Dutch oven and deep-fried pork cutlets dredged in flour, egg, and panko for tonkatsu, a Japanese dish my mother used to pack in my lunch boxes. I spent hours squeezing the water from boiled bean sprouts and tofu and spooning filling into soft, thin dumpling skins, pinching the tops closed, each one slightly closer to one of Maangchi's perfectly uniform mandu.

And you never have to change the water, because the horse does it for you, by drinking it down and triggering the valve to refill. So there’s always fresh oxygen for the fish. And you never have to feed the fish, because they eat the algae. And so long as no hawks or eagles come by to go fishing, you’re golden.” “And they don’t scare the horse?” “Never met a horse who cared.

I would like to turn in my skin and change it for a new epidermis. It feels as if I will never be able to rinse the sadness from my soul. All the while I am cognizant of the fact that I am trying to purge myself of my feelings. I start with my shell. I am in the water at least an hour. I immerse my head. My long, thick mane is so heavy, but I feel the lightness of my hair as it floats. I can hear my heart beating in my ears. I wonder what would happen if I died in this water. I drain the bathtub and refill it. I scrub my skin until it stings. I still don't feel clean. I close my eyes. I switch to lying on my back. I gaze at the heavens through the skylight on the ceiling above the tub. I am thinking about Isabella. I am struck by the feeling of uncleanness that I have been immersed in that day. I would imagine that this child feels unclean always, in body and in mind. I am hoping that the sheets in her foster home are snow white and fragrant. I am hoping that she felt safe. I am worried that she is so deeply alone and frightened. I know somewhere deep inside of me that the decisions and choices I made today were sound. I am praying, with eyes glued to the stars, that I will not awaken in the night with my heart beating out of my chest; that I will not be haunted by Francis's diseased body; that I will not perseverate on ever nuance of my day - the smells, the cockroaches, the piercing torment of Isabella's unseeing eye, her father's sore-ridden penis penetrating her tiny body. Yet in many ways this is an experience I hope never to forget. The pearls. I must not forget the pearls that I have promised her.

Then I wanted to take a bath so I ran water into the big sunken tub and poured in some bath salts and lit the candles in the square glass holders around the rim of the tub. There were big windows overlooking the garden. I opened them and smelled the jasmine and the wet earth. There was a little warm breeze and the garden tinkled and chimed like stars falling. I called you. I wanted a refill on my wine. I wanted to give you the jasmine and the wind chime stars. I’m sorry.

a spring to refill his water bottles. When he returned, Barnabus was busy cooking their midday meal, and Alex noticed that Thrang was watching Barnabus closely. Thrang had been the cook on Alex’s first adventure, and watching him hover around the campfire made Alex laugh out loud. “Miss cooking, do you?” said Alex. “Old habits die hard,” answered Thrang, looking a little sheepish. “If you’d like to take over, just say so,” said Barnabus. “No, no, not at all,” Thrang said quickly. “I’ve heard about your ability, Barnabus, and I’m happy to let you do the cooking.” “You are most kind. But perhaps you should wait until you taste it before making up your mind.” The

Getting a free refill The Refill scheme, which runs in lots of British cities, started in my home town of Bude as a way of raising money for the local sea pool. Local cafés offer tap water free to anyone with a refillable bottle from the sea-pool shop. It worked so well that it was taken to Bristol, where Natalie Fee, an anti-plastic activist, brought it to life. Refill now exists all over the UK, with an app that tells you where you can refill for free. As an example of how a simple thought can change the world, this is the finest. It has grown into a campaign with clout. It only takes seconds to refill a bottle, saves you money and prevents single-use plastic water bottles from going to landfill or the environment. No excuses, right?

Sam groaned. A warmth on her face alerted her to the new morning. She opened one eye and peered at the fuzzy daylight streaming in through the window. Her head throbbed like a bitch. Her mouth felt like a carpet. She pushed herself off the couch and stood up shakily, kicking bottles as she stumbled to her small kitchen. Every movement was painful and slow. She was a sloth tight-roping through time. She held onto the basin for a moment to steady herself. She grabbed a plastic cup and opened the tap, letting it flow as she filled and refilled it, gulping down as much water as she could. She splashed her face, neck and chest with water, then refilled the cup and dumped the contents over her head. She stood there, unaware of the moments passing by, as the water dripped down her body. Willing herself to wake up and feel better. Willing the nausea into oblivion.

After many years the woman died, of natural causes. And a few years after that, the ogre died. Eventually, his mistresses died, down on the ground, in the people village, over decades. The war men and women died. The human girl who had escaped her early death died, across the land, over by the ocean, in her shack of blue bowls and rocking chairs. The witch, who had originally made the cake and made up up the spell and given it as a gift to her beloved ogre friend, died. The cake went on and on. Time passed... And the cake, always wanting to please, the cake who had found a way to survive its endlessness by recreating its role over and over again, tried to figure out, in its cake way, what this light-dappled object might want to eat. So it became darkness, a cake of darkness. It did not have to be human food. It did not have to be digestible through a familiar tract. It lay there on the dirt, waiting, a simmering cake of darkness. Through time, and wind, and earthquakes, and chance. At last the cloak fell out of the tree and blew across the land and happened upon the cake where it ate its darkness and extinguished its own dappled light. The cloak disappeared into night and was not seen again, as it was only a piece of coat shaped darkness now and could not be spotted so easily, had there been any eyes left to see it. It floated and joined with nowhere. Darkness was overtaking everything, anyway, pouring over the land and sky. The cake itself, still in the shape of darkness, sat on the hillside. 'What's left?' said the cake. It thought in blocks of feeling. It felt the thick darkness all around it. 'What is left to eat me, to take me in?' Darkness did not want to eat more darkness, not especially. Darkness did not care for carrot cake, or apple pie. Darkness did not seem interested in a water cake or a cake of money. Only when the cake filled with light did it come over. The darkness circling around the light, devouring the light. But the cake kept refilling, as we know. This is the spell of the cake. And the darkness eating light, and again, light, and again, light, lifted.

You, Sunshine, are a hostage on my ship. Do as ye’re told and your stay here will be short, much to the benefit and relief of us both.” That close, she could smell him. Salt water. Fresh wind. The lye soap that his shirt had been laundered in. His point made, he straightened up, shot her a dark glare over his shoulder, and reached for a bottle with which to refill his mug. Nerissa swung her legs out of the bed. “I am leaving.” “And going where?” He nodded toward the windows behind him, one of which was open to admit a heady balm of salty night air. “There’s a whole ocean out there. Unless you can walk on water, Sunshine, you aren’t goin’ anywhere.” “How dare you speak to me that way! I am Lady Nerissa de—” “I don’t give a tinker’s damn who you are. Now, get up and move around if ye’ve a mind to, but we’re at sea and unless you plan to throw yourself overboard with all the drama of a Shakespearean heroine, ye’re stuck here as a guest of America in general and myself in particular. Get used to it.

I squat to retrieve the pitcher but Bruno’s faster. He offers it to me and I make the mistake of looking him in the eye. My balance is thrown and I start to fall back. Bruno drops the pitcher and takes hold of both of my wrists to keep my butt from slamming into the ground. He uses my momentum, and in one swift movement, we’re both standing again, face-to-face. Too close. Way too close. He smells of wine. And basil. Bruno picks up the pitcher, slowly this time, and loops my fingers through the handle. “All right?” he asks, his smile big and hypnotizing. I nod. “You should wash this.” I nod again. “And refill it.” Nod. “You agree with everything I say?” Nod. “You like sleeping in my bed last night?” My face combusts, suddenly very aware of all the customers, especially the table of American hoochies not even five feet away. I steal a glance at them. The brunette’s mouth hangs open and the blond one looks me up and down, her expression simultaneously appalled and impressed. I’m mortified. And slightly thrilled. I run through the restaurant and into the kitchen without looking back. I blast the cold water into the sink, let it fill my cupped hands, and dip my face down into it again and again until I’m no longer on fire. When my eyes clear, I notice a hand towel dangling in front of me. Luca. I take it and quickly pat my face dry. “I--”…have no idea what to say. “Your brother…” Luca makes an understanding noise. “Bruno is”--he struggles for the world--“loud.” I would have said something else, but his definition is accurate too. Luca wasn’t even outside but he obviously knows his brother well. Bruno barging in on me while I was changing should have told me everything I needed to know about him.

Ink Recovery Up Increases ink tank refill rate while submerged in squid form. Primary Ability Boost = 20% Stackable Quick Respawn Decreases respawn time by 1 second after being splatted, 0.5 seconds if death by water. Splat respawn time is 8.5 seconds, death by water time is 5.5 seconds. Stackable Special Saver Reduces special gauge decrease after being splatted. Primary Ability boost = 15% Stackable Haunt Reveals the position of any player who splats you to your team for a short while. Non-Stackable

So many people think buckets of money will solve or eliminate the stresses in life. Such is not the case. More is more and less is less. In other words, the more you bring into your life, the more you have to maintain. If you are accumulating things, the initial purchase is just the beginning. In addition to any debt you took on to make the purchase, this new item you now own may need to be stored, dusted, watered, cleaned, oiled, tightened, filled, emptied, refilled, tuned, insured, renewed—or any number of other time-consuming (and possibly expensive) maintenance chores. If you avoid the purchase altogether, you cut out the chain reaction of obligations to this thing. So

You use a plate; you wash the plate. The same is true with ice trays, right? Every time you dump out the cubes you wash the tray before refilling. Some refrigeration experts claim ice tastes better if you wash those trays less frequently because minerals from the water build up in the trays and make the ice taste better. So stop washing them every time you empty them.

Effective cheap e liquid Advice Simplified Yet the amount of smokers seems to just grow with each passing year, though it's a known fact that smoking causes lung cancer and death. It appears like until tobacco is completely prohibited across the world, individuals will continue to smoke. Giving up the habit is extremely hard because nicotine is addictive. A lot of people try but majority of them neglect to get rid of the habit. But now that electronic cigarettes are offered in loads, it may be more easy to give up the habit. Electronic cigarettes are not just safe but they are less inconvenient also. Most public places let the e-cigarette to be smoked. But this cannot be said for actual cigs. Nowadays, a lot of places don't allow smokers to smoke in public places. Electronic cigarettes are not smoky so no one is harmed by them; not even the smokers themselves. Additionally they don't create any wreck and may be used easily and smoothly. There are cheap e liquid with different level of nicotine content to select from and the heaviness of the vapour depends upon the amount of nicotine content in the e-liquid PG e liquid have only flavours pure water or alcohol added to it initially it had not been possible to replace the e liquid but these days it truly is possible to replace and refill e liquid with your choice flavours there are numerous superior e liquid that are not only inexpensive but those that fit your tastes fairly nicely. When used with a clearomizer e liquid operates best. By doing this the vapour creation is maximum and the taste of the sigaret is better and purer. And because you've flavoured smoke in place of tobacco you don't have to suffer from the toxic substances of your ordinary cig. Moreover, the cost of an e-sigaret is comparatively low and just one purchase last for a long time. For those who have some questions regarding the goods, live chat with specialists can be obtained. They may either chat live if the expert can be acquired or a message can be posted in the specified space. The pro will read and post an answer soon. Purchases may be made by users once they have all the replies. So that there's no disturbance or trouble while having a smoke the e cigarette may be used as per hints. With time, it is certain that smokers will manage to kick the habit.

What do you think you are doing?” she fumed. “I hauled all that hot water for my own bath.” He smirked. “I did wonder who left it. Awfully kind of you.” “It was not kind,” she said between clenched teeth. “It was for my own bath. Why would you presume someone filled it for you?” His eyes narrowed. “How high and mighty you speak all of a sudden.” She felt her cheeks burn. “Well, I’m angry!” He gripped the sides of the tub and made as though to rise. “Then I shall get out straightaway if you like.” “No! Not with me standing here. I shall wait outside.” She stepped out and closed the door. Five or ten minutes later he finally emerged, hair slicked back, skin still glistening. “It’s all yours, love.” “I trust you’re going to help me refill it?” “No need. It’s perfectly good water. Still warm. I shall even come in and scrub your back, if you like.” He winked at her. “Not on your life. How selfish you are.” He lifted his square chin. “Well, I shall definitely not fetch and tote for you after that.” He turned away, whistling to himself as he walked jauntily down the passage, her towel around his neck.

went to great lengths to enforce it. In the early 1950s, when Cincinnati agreed under pressure to allow black swimmers into some of its public pools, whites threw nails and broken glass into the water to keep them out. In the 1960s, a black civil rights activist tried to integrate a public pool by swimming a lap and then emerging to towel off. “The response was to drain the pool entirely,” wrote the legal historian Mark S. Weiner, “and refill it with fresh water.

The Bright Lights of Sarajevo After the hours that Sarajevans pass queuing with empty canisters of gas to get the refills they wheel home in prams, or queuing for the precious meagre grams of bread they’re rationed to each day, and often dodging snipers on the way, or struggling up sometimes eleven flights of stairs with water, then you’d think the nights of Sarajevo would be totally devoid of people walking streets Serb shells destroyed, but tonight in Sarajevo that’s just not the case The young go walking at stroller’s pace, black shapes impossible to mark as Muslim, Serb or Croat in such dark, in unlit streets you can’t distinguish who calls bread hjleb or hleb or calls it kruh. All take the evening air with stroller’s stride no torches guide them, but they don’t collide except as one of the flirtatious ploys when a girl’s dark shape is fancied by a boy’s. Then the tender radar of the tone of voice shows by its signals she approves his choice. Then match or lighter to a cigarette to check in her eyes if he’s made progress yet. And I see a pair who’ve certainly progressed beyond the tone of voice and match-flare test and he’s about, I think, to take her hand and lead her away from where they stand on two shell scars, where, in ‘92 Serb mortars massacred the breadshop queue and blood-dunked crusts of shredded bread lay on this pavement with the broken dead. And at their feet in holes made by the mortar that caused the massacre, now full of water from the rain that’s poured down half the day, though now even the smallest clouds have cleared away leaving the Sarajevo star-filled evening sky ideally bright and clear for bomber’s eye in those two rain-full shell-holes the boy sees fragments of the splintered Pleiades, sprinkled on those death-deep, death-dark wells splashed on the pavement by Serb mortar shells. The dark boy-shape leads dark girl-shape away to share one coffee in a candlelit café until the curfew, and he holds her hand behind AID flour-sacks refilled with sand

Tap water. Listen: unless yours is unsafe to drink, I don’t ever want to catch you buying bottled water again. What an easy way to save money—and avoid dumping plastic into the ocean, which is where tens of billions of those bottles ultimately float. Just get a single plastic container and refill it from the tap. If need be, get a water-filtration pitcher (brita.com), too. It’s not a 75-cent bottle of water twice a day, it’s $547 a year. For water!

The Bright Lights of Sarajevo After the hours that Sarajevans pass queuing with empty canisters of gas to get the refills they wheel home in prams or queuing for the precious meagre grams of bread they’re rationed to each day, and often dodging snipers on the way, or struggling up sometimes eleven flights of stairs with water, then you’d think the nights of Sarajevo would be totally devoid of people walking streets Serb shells destroyed, but tonight in Sarajevo that’s just not the case – The young go walking at stroller’s pace black shapes impossible to mark as Muslim, Serb or Croat in such dark in unlit streets you can’t distinguish who calls bread hjleb or hleb or calls it kruh. All take the evening air with stroller’s stride no torches guide them, but they don’t collide except as one of the flirtatious ploys when a girl’s dark shape is fancied by a boy’s. Then the tender radar of the tone of voice shows by its signals she approves his choice. Then match or lighter to a cigarette to check in her eyes if he’s made progress yet. And I see a pair who’ve certainly progressed beyond the tone of voice and match-flare test and he’s about, I think, to take her hand and lead her away from where they stand on two shell scars, where, in 1992 Serb mortars massacred the breadshop queue and blood-dunked crusts of shredded bread lay on this pavement with the broken dead. And at their feet in holes made by the mortar that caused the massacre, now full of water from the rain that’s poured down half the day, though now even the smallest clouds have cleared away leaving the Sarajevo star-filled evening sky ideally bright and clear for bomber’s eye in those two rain-full shell-holes the boy sees fragments of the splintered Pleiades, sprinkled on those death-deep, death-dark wells splashed on the pavement by Serb mortar shells. The dark boy-shape leads dark girl-shape away to share one coffee in a candlelit café until the curfew, and he holds her hand behind AID flour-sacks refilled with sand.

We use up water as we sleep. First thing in the morning, our tank is low; we need a refill. In fact, the first meal of the day should be water—a liter is a healthy way to start the morning, and if we throw in a pinch of unrefined crystal salt, a pinch of cayenne pepper, and a squirt of fresh lemon juice, we have a great jump-start that prepares our digestion, hydrates us, and opens up proper secretions for detoxing.

A man strolled up to their table, dressed in the garb of a waiter. His blond hair was long and shiny, showing that he obviously took great care of it, probably more so than a man had any right to care for their hair. Light blue eyes were hidden beneath several strands of shimmering gold, and his pearly white teeth gleamed as he smiled. Kevin nearly groaned. Great. This was just what they needed. A bishie. “Good evening ma’am, madam… sir.” For reasons beyond Kevin, he felt like this man only added him at the last second as an afterthought. “Would either of you care for a refill?” he asked the two ladies at the table, though his eyes focused on Lilian. Kevin felt his blood boil. “No thanks. I’m good here.” Lilian dismissed the man without even looking at him. Vindication rushed through his veins when Kevin saw the pretty boy’s right eye twitch. He apparently wasn’t used to women ignoring him. “I see.” Kevin had to give the man credit. He kept his annoyance in check well. “And what about you, madam?” he addressed Kotohime. “Is the wine to your satisfaction?” He gave her his best smile. “It’s all right, I suppose.” Kotohime took a sip of the wine that he spoke of, managing to hide her grimace. “Though I do wish that you were in possession of some sake instead.” Another twitch. “I apologize that we could not accommodate you.” He bowed. “I have, of course, already suggested that we begin working towards importing sake, however, these things do take time. It will probably be at least a year before we see anything done.” “A shame,” Kotohime said, “I know that Kiara was most looking forward to trying some.” At the mention of Kiara, the man gripped the water pitcher in his hand hard enough that Kevin thought the handle would shatter. Did this man have a grudge against Kiara? He didn’t think so, but then, who could say for sure. For all Kevin knew, this man could have asked Kiara out on a date, thinking his bishounen good looks would make her swoon over him—and had then been disappointed when she told him that wimpy maggots who sparkled didn’t do it for her. Kevin could totally see that happening. “Yes, well, I am terribly sorry to disappoint a woman of her… esteemed position, but I am not in charge of imports, I’m afraid. I merely wait tables.” “Indeed.” “If you’ll excuse me.” “Hold it.” The man turned around. Kevin almost smiled when the man aimed an evil glare at him. He raised his glass. “I’d like a refill of water, please.” A twitch. “Of course, sir.” The man refilled his glass. Kevin leaned in. “If I ever see you stripping my girlfriend with your eyes again, I will rip your arms off and shove them so far up your ass that you’ll need to have surgery done if you ever want to use the restroom again,” he said, his tone and manner nonchalant. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the man said, his smile fixed. “I am merely doing my job as your host.” “Yes.” Kevin snorted. “I’m sure you are.

I look away when the Russian nurse comes in, holding a tray with Mom’s dinner on it. “Good evening, Mrs. Messing,” she says, her accent thick. Mom eyes her suspiciously. “I hope there’s plenty of sauce this time.” The nurse is polite and patient, even goes back to the kitchen to see if they have cracked pepper instead of the little packets. While Mom eats she talks about the parties she and Dad used to throw at the house. Those were the days, she says, sighing. Composers and producers; actresses like her and screenwriters like Dad, all of them vibrating with youth and beauty. The world was going to be ours. I readjust the napkin so that it covers a larger section of her blouse. How cute the two of you were in your matching outfits, she says about Emily and me. I refill her water cup, ask the nurse for more Parmesan cheese. Everyone said I was crazy to have daughters so close in age, but I thought one could watch out for the other. And you were always so mature, so it worked out. I dress her salad, tossing it with the flimsy plastic fork. Do you remember demanding white wine spritzers at your twelfth birthday party? Yes. I nod.

On bathing day, the tub is filled with water, and the patients are washed, one after the other, without a change of water. This is done until the water is really thick, and then it is allowed to run out and the tub is refilled without being washed. The same towels are used on all the women, those with eruptions as well as those without. The healthy patients fight for a change of water, but they are compelled to submit to the dictates of the lazy, tyrannical nurses.

TRAIL DESCRIPTION NOTE: This description begins at the trailhead parking area and sign just off Lost Park Road. A side trail, marked as the Long Gulch Trail, goes 0.2 mile up the hillside to intersect The Colorado Trail. Thru-hikers will not encounter this trailhead unless they make a specific detour to it. From the trailhead, cross the creek on a small bridge and go uphill for 0.2 mile to the CT, mile 0.0 (10,176 feet). Westbound hikers will turn left at this well-marked intersection. There is a good campsite near here, with water available from the fast-moving creek. Cross the creek about 300 feet past the intersection. The trail enters the Lost Creek Wilderness Area at mile 0.3 (10,263). Then at mile 1.6 (10,380) it heads through a mixed aspen-fir forest with some bristlecone pines. Cross a seasonal stream at mile 2.9 (10,366). There is a good campsite nearby. Cross a marshy area at mile 3.1 (10,387) and streams at mile 3.9 (10,347) and mile 4.5 (10,258). There is another creek at mile 5.3 (10,174) with several good campsites. The CT leaves the Lost Creek Wilderness Area at mile 6.6 (9,816) and crosses Rock Creek at mile 7.3 (9,534) where users should refill their bottles. Turn left when intersecting the Ben Tyler Trail at mile 7.4 (9,519). Ranch buildings are visible ahead. Pass through a Forest Service gate at mile 7.6 (9,555), continue to the Rock Creek Trailhead at mile 8.0 (9,726), and cross the road. Cross Johnson Gulch and a small, seasonal stream at mile 8.4 (9,521). This possible water source is the last until Kenosha Pass and there’s room to camp. Just past the stream, the CT crosses a jeep road and eventually passes through a stand of large aspen trees. At mile 10.6 (9,956) continue straight on the CT at a T road intersection. There are great views of the mountains to the south and west and toward the town of Jefferson. The trail eventually reaches a parking area at mile 14.4 (10,010). It continues to the left, and after crossing US Hwy 285, reaches the end of Segment 5 at mile 14.6 (9,969).

Behind the scenes, in a smaller room provided with geysers for the making of tea and large sinks for washing-up dirty dishes, a band of earnest workers was toiling at cutting bread at high speed to refill the returned empties from the hall in which the locusts were at work. Pile after pile of bread-and-butter was tipped on the plates which arrived, swept clean, through the hatches. The ammunition was provided by a number of women, armed with fierce and flashing breadknives and who brandished them with machine-like skill and precision. Each lady had brought her own tools, the better to get on with the job. Others continually replenished the tea urns from the steaming, spluttering water-boilers. Now and then, as one of the party left the kitchen for some purpose or another, there would be a brief pause whilst the rest criticised, verbally or by appropriate looks and gestures, her dress, demeanour, speed of work, contribution to the communal labours, or style of headgear — all the women wore hats, by the way — behind her back. Then they would turn-to again.

More is more and less is less. In other words, the more you bring into your life, the more you have to maintain. If you are accumulating things, the initial purchase is just the beginning. In addition to any debt you took on to make the purchase, this new item you now own may need to be stored, dusted, watered, cleaned, oiled, tightened, filled, emptied, refilled, tuned, insured, renewed—or any number of other time-consuming (and possibly expensive) maintenance chores. If you avoid the purchase altogether, you cut out the chain reaction of obligations to this thing.

Only a handful of family farmers still work the homesteads of No Man’s Land and the Texas Panhandle. To keep agribusiness going, a vast infrastructure of pumps and pipes reaches deep into the Ogallala Aquifer, the nation’s biggest source of underground freshwater, drawing the water down eight times faster than nature can refill it. The aquifer is a sponge, stretching from South Dakota to Texas, which filled up when glaciers melted about 15,000 years ago. It provides about 30 percent of the irrigation water in the United States.

Save me, O God, for the floodwaters are up to my neck. Deeper and deeper I sink into the mire; I can’t find a foothold. I am in deep water, and the floods overwhelm me. (Psalm 69:1–2 NLT)

Stonewall had no running water behind the bar; a returned glass was simply run through one of two stagnant vats of water kept underneath the bar, refilled, and then served to the next customer. By the end of an evening the water was murky and multicolored.