Worm Business Quotes

Dearest creature in creation, Study English pronunciation. I will teach you in my verse Sounds like corpse, corps, horse, and worse. I will keep you, Suzy, busy, Make your head with heat grow dizzy. Tear in eye, your dress will tear. So shall I! Oh hear my prayer. Just compare heart, beard, and heard, Dies and diet, lord and word, Sword and sward, retain and Britain. (Mind the latter, how it’s written.) Now I surely will not plague you With such words as plaque and ague. But be careful how you speak: Say break and steak, but bleak and streak; Cloven, oven, how and low, Script, receipt, show, poem, and toe. Hear me say, devoid of trickery, Daughter, laughter, and Terpsichore, Typhoid, measles, topsails, aisles, Exiles, similes, and reviles; Scholar, vicar, and cigar, Solar, mica, war and far; One, anemone, Balmoral, Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel; Gertrude, German, wind and mind, Scene, Melpomene, mankind. Billet does not rhyme with ballet, Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet. Blood and flood are not like food, Nor is mould like should and would. Viscous, viscount, load and broad, Toward, to forward, to reward. And your pronunciation’s OK When you correctly say croquet, Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve, Friend and fiend, alive and live. Ivy, privy, famous; clamour And enamour rhyme with hammer. River, rival, tomb, bomb, comb, Doll and roll and some and home. Stranger does not rhyme with anger, Neither does devour with clangour. Souls but foul, haunt but aunt, Font, front, wont, want, grand, and grant, Shoes, goes, does. Now first say finger, And then singer, ginger, linger, Real, zeal, mauve, gauze, gouge and gauge, Marriage, foliage, mirage, and age. Query does not rhyme with very, Nor does fury sound like bury. Dost, lost, post and doth, cloth, loth. Job, nob, bosom, transom, oath. Though the differences seem little, We say actual but victual. Refer does not rhyme with deafer. Foeffer does, and zephyr, heifer. Mint, pint, senate and sedate; Dull, bull, and George ate late. Scenic, Arabic, Pacific, Science, conscience, scientific. Liberty, library, heave and heaven, Rachel, ache, moustache, eleven. We say hallowed, but allowed, People, leopard, towed, but vowed. Mark the differences, moreover, Between mover, cover, clover; Leeches, breeches, wise, precise, Chalice, but police and lice; Camel, constable, unstable, Principle, disciple, label. Petal, panel, and canal, Wait, surprise, plait, promise, pal. Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair, Senator, spectator, mayor. Tour, but our and succour, four. Gas, alas, and Arkansas. Sea, idea, Korea, area, Psalm, Maria, but malaria. Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean. Doctrine, turpentine, marine. Compare alien with Italian, Dandelion and battalion. Sally with ally, yea, ye, Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, and key. Say aver, but ever, fever, Neither, leisure, skein, deceiver. Heron, granary, canary. Crevice and device and aerie. Face, but preface, not efface. Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass. Large, but target, gin, give, verging, Ought, out, joust and scour, scourging. Ear, but earn and wear and tear Do not rhyme with here but ere. Seven is right, but so is even, Hyphen, roughen, nephew Stephen, Monkey, donkey, Turk and jerk, Ask, grasp, wasp, and cork and work. Pronunciation (think of Psyche!) Is a paling stout and spikey? Won’t it make you lose your wits, Writing groats and saying grits? It’s a dark abyss or tunnel: Strewn with stones, stowed, solace, gunwale, Islington and Isle of Wight, Housewife, verdict and indict. Finally, which rhymes with enough, Though, through, plough, or dough, or cough? Hiccough has the sound of cup. My advice is to give up!!!

Past the flannel plains and blacktop graphs and skylines of canted rust, and past the tobacco-brown river overhung with weeping trees and coins of sunlight through them on the water downriver, to the place beyond the windbreak, where untilled fields simmer shrilly in the A.M. heat: shattercane, lamb's-quarter, cutgrass, sawbrier, nutgrass, jimsonweed, wild mint, dandelion, foxtail, muscadine, spinecabbage, goldenrod, creeping charlie, butter-print, nightshade, ragweed, wild oat, vetch, butcher grass, invaginate volunteer beans, all heads gently nodding in a morning breeze like a mother's soft hand on your cheek. An arrow of starlings fired from the windbreak's thatch. The glitter of dew that stays where it is and steams all day. A sunflower, four more, one bowed, and horses in the distance standing rigid and still as toys. All nodding. Electric sounds of insects at their business. Ale-colored sunshine and pale sky and whorls of cirrus so high they cast no shadow. Insects all business all the time. Quartz and chert and schist and chondrite iron scabs in granite. Very old land. Look around you. The horizon trembling, shapeless. We are all of us brothers. Some crows come overhead then, three or four, not a murder, on the wing, silent with intent, corn-bound for the pasture's wire beyond which one horse smells at the other's behind, the lead horse's tail obligingly lifted. Your shoes' brand incised in the dew. An alfalfa breeze. Socks' burrs. Dry scratching inside a culvert. Rusted wire and tilted posts more a symbol of restraint than a fence per se. NO HUNTING. The shush of the interstate off past the windbreak. The pasture's crows standing at angles, turning up patties to get at the worms underneath, the shapes of the worms incised in the overturned dung and baked by the sun all day until hardened, there to stay, tiny vacant lines in rows and inset curls that do not close because head never quite touches tail. Read these.

He loved the idea behind the Chinese concept of guanxi. It fit in the same general category as the concepts of friends, family, acquaintances, but it was more based in business and politics. Guanxi was about being able to call up a person one hadn’t seen in years and ask for a favor. To have enough people in one’s debt that there was more implied leverage to use when seeking favors from others.

There is a sort of busy worm, That will the fairest book deform. Their tasteless tooth will tear and taint The poet, patriot, sage or saint, Nor sparing wit nor learning. Now, if you’d know the reason why, The best of reasons I’ll supply: ’Tis bread to the poor vermin. J. Doraston, quoted by W. Blades

I tried to be as inconspicuous as possible as I lay the sausage against my ear. Abruptly, my cell phone went dead. A drop of grease dribbled into the dead center of my ear, creeping like a worm down onto my neck and below the collar of my shirt. A group of men and women in business suits walked by, swerving to avoid me. Across the street, a homeless-looking guy was staring at me, curious. Yep, this was pretty much rock bottom. As I was about to reach for a napkin and at least get my money's worth by eating the bratwurst while still hot, I heard it. "Dave? Can you hear me?

Ruins. Places built up by man, painstaking, sometimes over centuries. Layer upon layer of human experience, history, and art, represented in stone and wood and glass. Every single building had been put together with the idea of meeting some specific goal, a specific individual’s tastes, filling a purpose as an institution, or being built to cater to society’s tastes as a whole. Virtually every building had been a familiar place to someone, a home, a place of business. Roads had once been a part of people’s daily routines, bridges a convenience that was appreciated, if rarely acknowledged.

The early bird catches the worm & the sleeper catches nothing but dreams. Get up & get about your business. Good morning world, rise & grind.

Each segment of the worm is directly reproduced as a whole worm, just as each cell of the American CEO can produce a new CEO.

This is why the Liberian waiter laughed at me. He thought that I thought a toilet was my right, when he knew it was a privilege. "It must be, when 2.6 billion people don't have sanitation. I don't mean that they have no toilet in their house and must use a public one with queues and fees. Or that they have an outhouse, or a ricety shack that empties into a filthy drain or pigsty. All that counts as sanitation, though not a safe variety. The people who have those are the fortunate ones. Four in ten people have no access to any latrine, toilet, bucket, or box. Nothing. Instead, they defecate by train tracks and in forests. They do it in plastic bags and fling them through the air in narrow slum alleyways. If they are women, they get up at 4 A.M. to be able to do their business under cover of darkness for reasons of modesty, risking rape and snakebites. Four in ten people live in situations where they are surrounded by human excrement because it is in the bushes outside the village or in their city yards, left by children outside the backdoor. It is tramped back in on their feet, carried on fingers onto clothes, food and drinking water. "The disease toll of this is stunning. A gram of feces can contain 10 million viruses, 1 million bacteria, 1,000 parasite cysts, and 100 worm eggs...

The worst fear of the race yes, the world suddenly transformed into a senseless nightmare, horrible dissolution of things. Nothing compares, even oblivion is a sweet dream. You understand why, of course. Why this peculiar threat. These brooding psyches, all the busy minds everywhere. I hear them buzzing like flies in the blackness. I see them as glow worms flitting in the blackness. They are struggling, straining every second to keep the sky above them, to keep the sun in the sky, to keep the dead in the earth-to keep all things, so to speak, where they belong. What an undertaking! What a crushing task! Is it any wonder that they are all tempted by a universal vice, that in some dark street of the mind a single voice whispers to one and all, softly hissing, and says: 'Lay down your burden.' Then thoughts begin to drift, a mystical magnetism pulls them this way and that, faces start to change, shadows speak... sooner or later the sky comes down, melting like wax. But as you know, everything has not yet been lost: absolute terror has proved its security against this fate. Is it any wonder that these beings carry on the struggle at whatever cost?

Private sector networks in the United States, networks operated by civilian U.S. government agencies, and unclassified U.S. military and intelligence agency networks increasingly are experiencing cyber intrusions and attacks,” said a U.S.-China Economic and Security Review Commission report to Congress that was published the same month Conficker appeared. “. . . Networks connected to the Internet are vulnerable even if protected with hardware and software firewalls and other security mechanisms. The government, military, businesses and economic institutions, key infrastructure elements, and the population at large of the United States are completely dependent on the Internet. Internet-connected networks operate the national electric grid and distribution systems for fuel. Municipal water treatment and waste treatment facilities are controlled through such systems. Other critical networks include the air traffic control system, the system linking the nation’s financial institutions, and the payment systems for Social Security and other government assistance on which many individuals and the overall economy depend. A successful attack on these Internet-connected networks could paralyze the United States [emphasis added].

The train station—busy, swarming with people, luggage, porters, taxi drivers and limousine chauffeurs—a giant honeycomb, with worker bees flying in and out, carrying the trash, which covers the entire floor, in and out of the building. Only the honey has been consumed by the selected few, and nothing but the mucus remains. The line—a monstrous larva—the line stretches from the information window and extends almost out of the door. A human worm—hundreds of legs and hands, twisting and breathing disease. What was I thinking? This is just a city like any other, a city with its inhabitants, always busy, from the morning until the nighttime, always itching for a fight, always ready to chew me up and spit me out. A stripped and ragged bone, tossed aside when I can no longer feed its hungry belly. The belly of a beast—a human beast—merciless, yet placatory on the surface. I light a cigarette, spit on the floor, and walk towards the daylight.

I shook my head. "You're not missing anything, Alec. We're looking at this from two very different perspectives. I don't really believe in that whole 'eye for an eye' business." I was beginning to feel like I was getting control of the conversation again. Then Alec dropped his bombshell. "Then why the fuck are you a supervillain?" "Escape.

Sometimes Valène dreamt of cataclysms and tempests, of whirlwinds that would carry the whole house off like a wisp of straw and display the infinite marvels of the solar system to its shipwrecked inhabitants; or that an unseen crack would run through the building from top to bottom, like a shiver, and with a long, deep, snapping sound it would open in two and be slowly swallowed up in an indescribable yawning chasm; then hordes would overrun it, bleary-eyed monsters, giant insects with steel mandibles, blind termites, great white worms with insatiable mouths: the wood would crumble, the stone would turn to sand, the cupboards would collapse under their own weight, all would return to dust. But no. Only these shabby squabbles over buckets and tubs, over matches and sinks. And behind that ever-closed door the morbid gloom of that slow revenge, that ponderous business of two senile monomaniacs churning over their feigned histories and their wretched traps and snares.

Mothering and birding a child are the same. Children don't ask to be born. They don't owe anybody anything. This is one area your mother and I never saw eye to eye on, frankly. I'm down for her cause -- no American can truly be free while we still have colonies. If your rights are less because you're born in one place, not another, how meaningful are those rights in the first place? But, and this is a big but, that's why you should talk to this Richard dude, not because you owe your mother anything. If you've got a good thing going on and this business opens a whole can of worms... well, all I'm saying is, it's okay to choose yourself.

No alumnus of the Class of ’73 would ever forget that electric moment when Thorkjeld Svenson in his Commencement remarks clove a solid oak podium neatly in twain from top to base as he slammed down his fist to emphasize those deathless words, “Agri isn’t a business, it’s a culture!” As a farmer’s highest calling was to serve the earth, but to be merry withal in his labor, so was a hog entitled to its wallow in good, soft mud and a cow to its cud of sweet, fresh grass beneath a shady tree before each fulfilled its ultimate destiny. No fowl went from incubator to coop to stewpot without ever once getting its claws in real dirt to scratch up its own worms.

Darwin’s Bestiary PROLOGUE Animals tame and animals feral prowled the Dark Ages in search of a moral: the canine was Loyal, the lion was Virile, rabbits were Potent and gryphons were Sterile. Sloth, Envy, Gluttony, Pride—every peril was fleshed into something phantasmic and rural, while Courage, Devotion, Thrift—every bright laurel crowned a creature in some mythological mural. Scientists think there is something immoral in singular brutes having meat that is plural: beasts are mere beasts, just as flowers are floral. Yet between the lines there’s an implicit demurral; the habit stays with us, albeit it’s puerile: when Darwin saw squirrels, he saw more than Squirrel. 1. THE ANT The ant, Darwin reminded us, defies all simple-mindedness: Take nothing (says the ant) on faith, and never trust a simple truth. The PR men of bestiaries eulogized for centuries this busy little paragon, nature’s proletarian— but look here, Darwin said: some ants make slaves of smaller ants, and end exploiting in their peonages the sweating brows of their tiny drudges. Thus the ant speaks out of both sides of its mealy little mouth: its example is extolled to the workers of the world, but its habits also preach the virtues of the idle rich. 2. THE WORM Eyeless in Gaza, earless in Britain, lower than a rattlesnake’s belly-button, deaf as a judge and dumb as an audit: nobody gave the worm much credit till Darwin looked a little closer at this spaghetti-torsoed loser. Look, he said, a worm can feel and taste and touch and learn and smell; and ounce for ounce, they’re tough as wrestlers, and love can turn them into hustlers, and as to work, their labors are mythic, small devotees of the Protestant Ethic: they’ll go anywhere, to mountains or grassland, south to the rain forests, north to Iceland, fifty thousand to every acre guzzling earth like a drunk on liquor, churning the soil and making it fertile, earning the thanks of every mortal: proud Homo sapiens, with legs and arms— his whole existence depends on worms. So, History, no longer let the worm’s be an ignoble lot unwept, unhonored, and unsung. Moral: even a worm can turn. 3. THE RABBIT a. Except in distress, the rabbit is silent, but social as teacups: no hare is an island. (Moral: silence is golden—or anyway harmless; rabbits may run, but never for Congress.) b. When a rabbit gets miffed, he bounds in an orbit, kicking and scratching like—well, like a rabbit. (Moral: to thine own self be true—or as true as you can; a wolf in sheep’s clothing fleeces his skin.) c. He populates prairies and mountains and moors, but in Sweden the rabbit can’t live out of doors. (Moral: to know your own strength, take a tug at your shackles; to understand purity, ponder your freckles.) d. Survival developed these small furry tutors; the morals of rabbits outnumber their litters. (Conclusion: you needn’t be brainy, benign, or bizarre to be thought a great prophet. Endure. Just endure.) 4. THE GOSSAMER Sixty miles from land the gentle trades that silk the Yankee clippers to Cathay sift a million gossamers, like tides of fluff above the menace of the sea. These tiny spiders spin their bits of webbing and ride the air as schooners ride the ocean; the Beagle trapped a thousand in its rigging, small aeronauts on some elusive mission. The Megatherium, done to extinction by its own bigness, makes a counterpoint to gossamers, who breathe us this small lesson: for survival, it’s the little things that count.

Main Street is dead, which is no news to the families whose families ran family businesses on Main Street. When I returned...I found that all the local businesses from my childhood had been extirpated by Wal-Mart. If there is one single symbol for the demise of regional American culture, it is this superstore prototype, a huge capitalist boot that stomped the moms and pops, like soft, damp worms, to death. Don’t get me wrong. I love Wal-Mart. There is nothing I like more than to consign a mindless afternoon to those aisles, suspending thought, judgment. It’s like television. But to a documentarian of American culture, Wal-Mart is a nightmare. When it comes to towns, Hope, Alabama, becomes the same as Hope, Wyoming, or, for that matter, Hope, Alaska, and in the end, all that remains of our pioneering aspirations are the confused and self-conscious simulacra of relic culture: Ye Olde Curiosities ‘n’ Copie Shoppe, Deadeye Dick’s Saloon and Karaoke Bar—ingenious hybrids and strange global grafts that are the local businessperson’s only chance of survival in economies of scale.

Straight off, we were in the country. It was most lovely and pleasant in those sylvan solitudes in the early cool morning in the first freshness of autumn. From hilltops we saw fair green valleys lying spread out below, with streams winding through them, and island groves of trees here and there, and huge lonely oaks scattered about and casting black blots of shade; and beyond the valleys we saw the ranges of hills, blue with haze, stretching away in billowy perspective to the horizon, with at wide intervals a dim fleck of white or gray on a wave-summit, which we knew was a castle. We crossed broad natural lawns sparkling with dew, and we moved like spirits, the cushioned turf giving out no sound of footfall; we dreamed along through glades in a mist of green light that got its tint from the sun-drenched roof of leaves overhead, and by our feet the clearest and coldest of runlets went frisking and gossiping over its reefs and making a sort of whispering music, comfortable to hear; and at times we left the world behind and entered into the solemn great deeps and rich gloom of the forest, where furtive wild things whisked and scurried by and were gone before you could even get your eye on the place where the noise was; and where only the earliest birds were turning out and getting to business with a song here and a quarrel yonder and a mysterious far-off hammering and drumming for worms on a tree trunk away somewhere in the impenetrable remotenesses of the woods. And by and by out we would swing again into the glare.

Saturday is birthday cake day. During the week, the panadería is all strong coffee and pan dulce. But on weekends, it's sprinkle cookies and pink cake. By ten or eleven this morning, we'll get the first rush of mothers picking up yellow boxes in between buying balloons and paper streamers. In the back kitchen, my father hums along with the radio as he shapes the pastry rounds of ojos de buey, the centers giving off the smell of orange and coconut. It may be so early the birds haven't even started up yet, but with enough of my mother's coffee and Mariachi Los Camperos, my father is as awake as if it were afternoon. While he fills the bakery cases, my mother does the delicate work of hollowing out the piñata cakes, and when her back is turned, I rake my fingers through the sprinkle canisters. During open hours, most of my work is filling bakery boxes and ringing up customers (when it's busy) or washing dishes and windexing the glass cases (when it's not). But on birthday cake days, we're busy enough that I get to slide sheet cakes from the oven and cover them in pink frosting and tiny round nonpareils, like they're giant circus-animal cookies. I get to press hundreds-and-thousands into the galletas de grajea, the round, rainbow-sprinkle-covered cookies that were my favorite when I was five. My mother finishes hollowing two cake halves, fills them with candy- green, yellow, and pink this time- and puts them back together. Her piñatas are half our Saturday cake orders, both birthday girls and grandfathers delighting at the moment of seeing M&M's or gummy worms spill out. She covers them with sugar-paste ruffles or coconut to look like the tiny paper flags on a piñata, or frosting and a million rainbow sprinkles.

The "kindness of giving you a body" means that, at first, our bodies are not fully matured nor are our pleasant complexions. We started in the mother's womb as just an oval spot and oblong lump, and from there we developed through the vital essence of the mother's blood and flesh. We grew through the vital essence of her food while she endured embarrassment, pain, and suffering. After we were born, from a small worm until we were fully grown, she developed our body. The "kindness of undergoing hardships for you" means that, at first, we were not wearing any clothes with all their ornamentation, did not possess any wealth, and did not bring any provisions. We just came with a mouth and stomach-empty-handed, without any material things. When we came to this place where we knew no one, she gave food when we were hungry, she gave drink when we were thirsty, she gave clothes when we were cold, she gave wealth when we had nothing. Also, she did not just give us things she did not need. Rather, she has given us what she did not dare use for herself, things she did not dare eat, drink, or wear for herself, things she did not dare employ for the happiness of this life, things she did not dare use for her next life's wealth. In brief, without looking for happiness in this life or next, she nurtured her child. She did not obtain these things easily or with pleasure. She collected them by creating various negative karmas, by sufferings and hardships, and gave them all to the child. For example, creating negative karma: she fed the child through various nonvirtuous actions like fishing, butchering, and so forth. For example, suffering: to give to the child, she accumulated wealth by working at a business or farm and so forth, wearing frost for shoes, wearing stars as a hat, riding on the horse of her legs, her hem like a whip, giving her legs to the dogs and her face to the people. Furthermore, she loved the unknown one much more than her father, mother, and teachers who were very kind to her. She watched the child with eyes of love, and kept it warm in soft cloth. She dandled the child in her ten fingers, and lifted it up in the sky. She called to it in a loving, pleasant voice, saying, "Joyful one, you who delight Mommy. Lu, lu, you happy one," and so forth. The "kindness of giving you life" means that, at first, we were not capable of eating with our mouth and hands nor were we capable of enduring all the different hardships. We were like feeble insects without strength; we were just silly and could not think anything. Again, without rejection, the mother served us, put us on her lap, protected us from fire and water, held us away from precipices, dispelled all harmful things, and performed rituals. Out of fear for our death or fear for our health, she did divinations and consulted astrologers. Through many ritual ceremonies and many other different things, in inconceivable ways, she protected the life of her child. The "kindness of showing you the world" means that, at first, we did not come here knowing various things, seeing broadly, and being talented. We could only cry and move our legs and hands. Other than that, we knew nothing. The mother taught us how to eat when we did not know how. She taught us how to wear clothes when we did not know how. She taught us how to walk when we did not know how. She taught us how to talk when we did not know how to say "Mama," or "Hi," and so forth. She taught us various skills, creative arts, and so forth. She tried to make us equal when we were unequal, and tried to make the uneven even for us. Not only have we had a mother in this lifetime, but from beginningless samsara she served as a mother countless times.

If you don’t make a move on Lark, I’m going to hook you two up. Don’t make me stoop to that shit, man. Bad enough I’m helping Tucker find a decent fuck for Bailey. I really don’t need to play matchmaker with you too.” “I’ve got it handled.” Cooper smirked. “Lark’s coming to your shop to get a tat fixed. You’re welcome for that.” “What?” I muttered, frowning even if this idea interested me. “She’s got a lame worm tat and needs it fixed. She works at that Denny’s and can’t afford it, so I said I would pay. I like paying for chicks to get nice tats. Makes me feel charitable.” “It’s a worm?” I asked, wondering why Lark would have a fucking worm tattoo. “Looks like one. I think it was supposed to be a butterfly. I can’t remember. Farah got all territorial and I about jizzed my pants.” “Too much fucking info, man,” I said, emphasizing each word. “Whatever. Just make sure you look your best when she shows up. I don’t want you scaring her away. She’s cute and available and I don’t want Vaughn messing with Lark. He’s trouble and will eat her alive.” Even though I said nothing, Cooper started laughing. “You’re jealous.” Exhaling hard, I flipped him off again, but he just kept laughing. “Yeah, well, you better get that girl or I might set her up with someone from the club. Judd still gets weird around Mac. Need to get him a woman so Judd won’t kill him on accident one day,” Cooper said, air quoting “accident.” Leaning back, I doodled on my napkin until I realized I was drawing Lark again. Cooper didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy frowning at his phone. “Problem?” “More shit from the Devils. They’re pushing and we’ll need to push back. Might need to call someone in to go to Tucson to handle the problem at the top.” “Someone?” “Don’t you worry. Business shit.” “Now, you’re secretive. Where was this when you were talking about jazzing your pants.

Close to the left of the school entrance gate are uncompleted rooms which lack everything else but a base foundation and load-bearing walls. And as for the toilets - in all six years of my life as a student, I never used them once, as they were hardly ever clean. The sight of decayed excrement and worms crawling all over the floors and toilet seats was enough to make one lose interest in passing out waste. One fateful day, I held back the faeces in my anus and walked the mile-long journey home from school. It was painful yet needful as anything would be better than having to do my business in a smelly worm-infested room. No sane individual would subject their own human waste to that kind of treatment. We are all kidding ourselves - OGS is not a school, it is an extension of Kirikiri prison!

All of our habitual patterns are efforts to maintain a predictable identity: “I am an angry person”; “I am a friendly person”; “I am a lowly worm.” We can work with these mental habits when they arise and stay with our experience not just when we’re meditating but also in daily life. Whether we’re alone or with others, no matter what we’re doing, uneasiness can float to the surface at any time. We may think those poignant, piercing feelings are signs of danger, but in fact, they’re signals that we’ve just contacted the fundamental fluidity of life. Rather than hiding from these feelings by staying in the bubble of ego, we can let the truth of how things really are get through. These moments are great opportunities. Even if we’re surrounded by people—in a business meeting, say—when we feel uncertainty arising, we can just breathe and be present with the feelings. We don’t have to panic or withdraw into ourselves. There’s no need to respond habitually. No need to fight or flee. We can stay engaged with others and at the same time acknowledge what we’re feeling.

Spiders are by no means the only creatures that need to fear the parasitic wasps’ coercive tactics. And drugs are not the wasps’ only weapons for gaining the compliance of their victims. Ampulex compressa, better known as the jewel wasp because of its iridescent blue-green sheen, performs neurosurgery to achieve its aims. Its quarry is the annoyingly familiar American cockroach (Periplaneta americana). Not to be confused with the comparatively diminutive German roach common up north, this species prefers warmer climes and can grow as big as a mouse. Though dwarfed in stature by its prey, a female jewel wasp that has caught the scent of an American roach will aggressively pursue and attack it—even if that means following the fleeing insect into a house. The roach puts up a mighty struggle, flailing its legs and tucking in its head to fend off the attack, but usually to no avail. With lightning speed, the wasp stings the roach’s midsection, injecting an agent that will temporarily paralyze it so that the behemoth will stay still for the delicate procedure to follow. Like an evil doctor wielding a syringe, she again inserts her stinger, this time into the roach’s brain, and gingerly moves it around for half a minute or so until she finds exactly the right spot, whereupon she injects a venom. Shortly thereafter, the paralytic agent delivered by the first sting wears off. In spite of having full use of its limbs and the same ability to sense its surroundings as any normal roach, it’s strangely submissive. The venom, according to Frederic Libersat, a neuroethologist at Ben-Gurion University in Israel, has turned the roach into a “zombie” that will henceforth take its orders from the wasp and willingly tolerate her abuse. Indeed, the roach doesn’t protest in the least when she twists off part of one of its antennae with her powerful mandible and proceeds to suck the liquid oozing from it like soda from a straw. The wasp then does the same thing to its other antenna and, assured that the roach will go nowhere, leaves it alone for about twenty minutes as she searches for a burrow where she’ll lay an egg to be nourished by the roach. Meanwhile, her brainwashed slave busies itself grooming—picking fungal spores, tiny worms, and other parasites off itself—providing a sterile surface for the wasp to glue its egg. When the wasp returns, she seizes the roach by the stump of one of its antennae and “walks it like a dog on a leash to her burrow,” said Libersat. Thanks to its cooperation, she doesn’t have to waste energy dragging the massive roach. Equally important, he said, she doesn’t “need to paralyze all the respiratory system, so the thing will stay alive and fresh. Her larvae need to feed five or six days on this fresh meat, which you don’t want to rot.” The

#8 Think about what running the business will mean on a day-to-day basis before you start. Every company has different challenges and different needs. A content site means writers, a distribution network, and ad reps. A shopping site means warehousing, customer service, and returns. A drop-ship site means managing remote vendors, outdated stocking information, and customer confusion. A directory site means lots of sales reps, a sophisticated customer relationship management (CRM) system, recurring billing, and customer service people dedicated to helping vendors build their profiles. Manufacturing is its own can of worms. When you think about your company, think about the type of challenges you might face and ask if they are things you personally want to deal with. If yes, make sure you have a clear plan to overcome them and speak to other people in similar situations about their challenges and their solutions. #9

And so they did. Over the next several weeks, the garden friends collected trash that they found lying around—from soda cans that had tumbled out of the recycling bin, to a weather-beaten cardboard box, to an old baseball cap that was the perfect size for a mosquito-sized soda fountain. The friends used this junk to construct tiny buildings. They decorated their new business with colorful leaves and flower petals, and they used rocks and pebbles for tables and chairs. Wiggly worked hard at making tunnels in the dirt for his new park, and even Snarky caught on to the enthusiasm and collected shiny pebbles for his shop. By the time they were finished, Garden Town had come to be—a tiny town with a soda fountain, a park, a restaurant, and a pebble shop. Wiggly Worm and his friends had proved that, with a little hard work and determination, it’s possible to make your dreams come true! Just for Fun Activity Collect old containers and other trash-bound items in your house. With a little imagination (and some craft supplies), I bet you can make a pretty cool Garden Town of your own! Glue the town to a piece of poster

I come from the lower orders, that is understood by all. Not the lowest; you’d have to go back to my grandfather for the lowest. He was a night-soil remover, did you know that, Sam? One shilling per stinking cesspit. Did you know that they set me to working with him when I was a boy? One summer I chucked it, ran to the countryside, hid in a hay mow. Farmer found me in the morning, took pity, let me stay. Let me work with him and his dogs, tending his sheep. It was bliss. I never loved anything like I loved them dogs. Then my father showed up and dragged me home. Why? He didn’t want me. “Never mind. You could say my father’s rise to running his own public house was nothing short of a miracle, really. And then I went and edged up a rung from him, didn’t I, when I became a constable. Promoted to detective. Then chief of detectives. Still and all, I got about as high as I could possibly go, given what I come from. And that ain’t particular high. Just ask Sir Richard Mayne, commissioner of the Metropolitan, if you’re unsure of that.” Llewellyn sighed deeply and shook his head. “You seem impatient, Mr. Llewellyn. Am I keeping you?” Field poured the last of the whiskey into his glass. “Now, forget my old man. Forget the night-soil remover. Start over. Say I come from a monkey. And so did you. And Commissioner Mayne—him, too.” He looked around the tavern. “And so did every bleeding body on the whole earth come from monkeys, and those monkeys come from God knows what—fish? Worms? Who benefits, Sam? Who gets hurt? Who likes it, and who don’t?” Llewellyn shrugged. “I’ll tell you who don’t like it: the merchants who run the bleeding empire don’t like it, not one bit. It puts every man on the same level as them, see? The rich, the poor, the light-skinned, and the dark. The bishops don’t like it, nor the lords, because if Mr. Darwin has his way, where’s the control? Who’s in charge, who’s on top and who’s not? Bad for business, Mr. Darwin’s notions are. But for blokes like me and you? Well, even a policeman can dream, can’t he? It’s not flattering, perhaps, having an orangutan as your forefather, but there’s a kind of hope in it, don’t you see? Last I checked, there weren’t no quality monkeys, nor were there lower-class ones.” “And?” “Crash, boom, Mr. Darwin brings it all down. Rule Britannia and the lot. Brings it down harder and more thorough than Mr. Marx ever dreamt in his darkest revolutionary dream.

Atoms, elements and molecules are three important knowledge in Physics, chemistry and Biology. mathematics comes where counting starts, when counting and measurement started, integers were required. Stephen hawking says integers were created by god and everything else is work of man. Man sees pattern in everything and they are searched and applied to other sciences for engineering, management and application problems. Physics, it is required understand the physical nature or meaning of why it happens, chemistry is for chemical nature, Biology is for that why it happened. Biology touch medicine, plants and animals. In medicine how these atoms, elements and molecules interplay with each other by bondage is being explained. Human emotions and responses are because of biochemistry, hormones i e anatomy and physiology. This physiology deals with each and every organs and their functions. When this atom in elements are disturbed whatever they made i e macromolecules DNA, RNA and Protein and other micro and macro nutrients and which affects the physiology of different organs on different scales and then diseases are born because of this imbalance/ disturb in homeostasis. There many technical words are there which are hard to explain in single para. But let me get into short, these atoms in elements and molecules made interplay because of ecological stimulus i e so called god. and when opposite sex meets it triggers various responses on body of each. It is also harmone and they are acting because of atoms inside elements and continuous generation or degenerations of cell cycle. There is a god cell called totipotent stem cell, less gods are pluripotent, multi potent and noni potent stem cells. So finally each and every organ system including brain cells are affected because of interplay of atoms inside elements and their bondages in making complex molecules, which are ruled by ecological stimulus i e god. So everything is basically biology and medicine even for animals, plants and microbes and other life forms. process differs in each living organisms. The biggest mystery is Brain and DNA. Brain has lots of unexplained phenomenon and even dreams are not completely understood by science that is where spiritualism/ soul touches. DNA is long molecule which has many applications as genetic engineering. genomics, personal medicine, DNA as tool for data storage, DNA in panspermia theory and many more. So everything happens to women and men and other sexes are because of Biology, Medicine and ecology. In ecology every organisms are inter connected and inter dependent. Now physics - it touch all technical aspects but it needs mathematics and statistics to lay foundation for why and how it happened and later chemistry, biology also included inside physics. Mathematics gave raise to computers and which is for fast calculation on any applications in any sciences. As physiological imbalances lead to diseases and disorders, genetic mutations, again old concept evolution was retaken to understand how new biology evolves. For evolution and disease mechanisms, epidemiology and statistics was required and statistics was as a data tool considered in all sciences now a days. Ultimate science is to break the atoms to see what is inside- CERN, but it creates lots of mysterious unanswerable questions. laws in physics were discovered and invented with mathematics to understand the universe from atoms. Theory of everything is a long search and have no answers. While searching inside atoms, so many hypothesis like worm holes and time travel born but not yet invented as far as my knowledge. atom is universe, and humans are universe they have everything that universe has. ecology is god that affects humans and climate. In business these computerized AI applications are trying to figure out human emotions by their mechanism of writing, reading, texting, posting on social media and bla bla. Arts is trying to figure out human emotions in art way.

We have all heard of the bottom line, but have you heard of the triple bottom line? Abbreviated 3BL, it’s also known as the three pillars or the three Ps: profit, people, and the planet. More companies are adopting the Zero Waste Business Principles developed by ZWIA, principles that encourage looking at resources in new ways.

Chávez never lost his ability to charm, but equally often he chose to repel. Rather than heal wounds and broaden his base, he referred to the wealthy as putrid oligarchs, spoiled brats, pickpockets, and pigs; called business leaders vampires and worms; and denounced Roman Catholic priests as perverts. Notwithstanding his cordial encounter with Bill Clinton and me, he regularly insulted the United States for no apparent reason other than to have an enemy to rail against, and, perhaps, to please his new mentor in Havana, Fidel Castro. Chávez’s communications strategy was to light rhetorical fireworks and toss them in all directions. Every day and many nights, he was on a podium, in a television studio, or on a radio broadcast, boasting about his accomplishments and deriding—in the crudest terms—real and suspected foes.

My experience highlights the importance of entering new business opportunities early on, as it is easier to make money. My story echoes the universal truth: the early bird gets the worm, especially when it comes to emerging technologies.

Molech had the advantage. This was his turf and his dwelling. He had spent much of his time over the millennia below the surface, which made his skin pale white and his eyes unable to see well when up above on the surface. But down below, he was the god of the underworld. He could see better than even Mikael’s preternatural night vision. Mikael didn’t know what he was running into down here. He arrived at a fork in the small tunnel. He looked at the dirt and could see that his adversary had gone to the right. Mikael followed. The tunnels were quite small, only big enough for the bulky eight foot deity to move, with little leeway. For Mikael, there was more room because he was smaller, but not by much. He stopped again. Another split. But this time, three options. He took the middle way. Mikael figured that by now, his comrade archangels would have moved the stone away and were on their way to join him. He felt his pathway was circling back. When he saw another crossroads, he realized what he was now inside: a maze. The mole god had burrowed out a complex labyrinth of tunnels that seemed to Mikael a web of confusion. The rock was harder and the dust sparser, making it even more difficult for Mikael to follow his prey’s foot prints. About the only thing he could follow now was the creature’s stench. He heard the sound of footsteps in the dark, not far from him. He picked up his pace, trying not to make as much noise as the clumsy brute was making. He turned a corner and saw the deity jump down into an opening in the rocky floor. When he reached it, he saw it was an opening that led deeper still, to a lower level. He heard the voices of his comrades in the distance, shouting for him. He decided he would take this one time to give some direction, even though it would also warn Molech. But he needed his comrades. He shouted, “Down here, Angels! There’s an opening to a deeper level!” Then he jumped. He landed twenty feet below. Before him, a new opening to a new maze of tunnels. He thought, This has been one busy little worm. He followed the smell. His opponent now knew how close he was. Mikael turned another corner and saw the god waiting for him, before bolting down a pathway. Mikael responded instinctively to the sight of the fleeing divinity. It wasn’t until he was almost upon the pathway that it registered in his mind that he was being led into a trap. He slid to a stop. It was too late. He heard the sound of a release being tripped and rocks shifting. Above him. A triggered cave-in crushed him beneath a ton of rock. He was completely immobilized. He could not get to his weapons. He could only see through a thin crevice of some rocks as Molech walked up to him, laughed and spit at him, before disappearing deeper into the network of twisting tunnels.

You’ve been one busy worm!

KEY TAKEAWAYS •Believe in yourself—make it your daily mantra. •Find a mentor—you can always learn something new. •Always be on time. The early bird catches the worm. •Treat everyone with kindness and respect, especially the “gatekeepers” to success. •Return calls and texts in 24 hours or less—response builds customer loyalty. •Sweat every detail. •Dress for success, even if you’re down on your luck. •Know your target market and whether your product can succeed. •Selling a necessary product is easier than selling a luxury. •Don’t reinvent the wheel—let someone else do that. •Leave nothing to chance.

Uh-oh!” said Lizzy. “There’s a boy coming over from the boys’ side of the playground, and guess who it is.” There wasn’t any rule about a boys’ side and a girls’ side at Bear Country School. But the boys did sort of stay on one side of the playground and the girls on the other. Oh! I hope it’s Herbie Cubbison! thought Sister. Sister Bear liked Herbie, and everybody knew it--except maybe Herbie. “Is it Herbie?” asked Sister, not wanting to look. “No,” said Lizzy. “It’s Billy Grizzwold.” “Oh, no! Not that awful Billy Grizzwold!” said Sister, turning the rope faster and faster. “Hey, slow down,” said Amy. “Hi, Sister!” said Billy. “Don’t you ‘hi’ me, said Sister, “and you better not have a worm, like you did yesterday, or a dead mouse, like you did the day before!” “No worm. No dead mouse,” said Billy. “Just me!” And with that he began jumping with Amy and got tangled in the rope. Down they all fell in a heap. “Why, you…!” said Sister. She pulled the rope free and ran after Billy. Sister was a fast runner. But Billy was faster and kept just ahead of her. Oh, why doesn’t Herbie Cubbison come to my rescue? thought Sister as she chased Billy around and around the playground. Herbie was too busy playing fistball even to notice.

Usually royals believed that going down to shop or eat in the lower part of the city was beneath their station. That’s why Talis and Mara almost always went there to escape prying eyes. Especially now, since if they were seen together, it would mean trouble for the both of them.   As they strolled down the freshly-washed cobblestone street, Mara whispered to Talis that her mother was still upset and they had to be careful.  “I told her it was my fault, but she still feels you were partially to blame. I feel awful, Talis.” Mara studied him, her eyes filled with apprehension. “You warned me not to go after that boar. I should have listened to you. I’m sorry.” “It’s alright. You’re safe, that’s all that matters to me.” Mara reached out and took his hand, eyes warm and tender. They continued walking together and took the trader’s way to Fiskar’s Market. Around the upper shops, down an alleyway stacked with crates, inside a warehouse door, past workers loading crates, until they reached the dark warehouse room that led to a corridor winding around and down to a lift.  The workers averted their eyes when they used the lift, as if they thought it wasn’t their business to notice a few royal kids stalking around in the building. Talis and Mara hopped on the lift. She grabbed his hand as the lift jolted, starting their descent several hundred feet down into the darkness.  Talis always felt a thrill from the descent as if uncertain whether they would ever arrive at the bottom. It was pitch black without a source of light. Mara cuddled close to Talis, her arms snaking around his waist, the soft exhalations of her breath landing on his neck. He felt uncomfortable and his heart raced. Her small fingers felt along his chest and she wormed her way even closer and started to whisper something in his ear.  The lift suddenly jolted as they reached the bottom. What was she going to say? She jumped out of the lift and dashed down the passageway until they reached Shade’s Gate next to the upper part of Fiskar’s Market. Talis frowned and wondered if he ever would understand the minds of girls. Today was Hanare, the sacred day of the Goddess Nacrea, eighth day of the week—a day free from study and work. At least for the royals. In Fiskar’s Market, most commoners still toiled, preparing for Magare, the first day of the week and market day. But still, children chased chickens lazily through the market stalls and old men played Chano, staring at the chipped granite pieces as if waiting for a mystery to unfold. 

Usually royals believed that going down to shop or eat in the lower part of the city was beneath their station. That’s why Talis and Mara almost always went there to escape prying eyes. Especially now, since if they were seen together, it would mean trouble for the both of them. As they strolled down the freshly-washed cobblestone street, Mara whispered to Talis that her mother was still upset and they had to be careful. “I told her it was my fault, but she still feels you were partially to blame. I feel awful, Talis.” Mara studied him, her eyes filled with apprehension. “You warned me not to go after that boar. I should have listened to you. I’m sorry.” “It’s alright. You’re safe, that’s all that matters to me.” Mara reached out and took his hand, eyes warm and tender. They continued walking together and took the trader’s way to Fiskar’s Market. Around the upper shops, down an alleyway stacked with crates, inside a warehouse door, past workers loading crates, until they reached the dark warehouse room that led to a corridor winding around and down to a lift. The workers averted their eyes when they used the lift, as if they thought it wasn’t their business to notice a few royal kids stalking around in the building. Talis and Mara hopped on the lift. She grabbed his hand as the lift jolted, starting their descent several hundred feet down into the darkness. Talis always felt a thrill from the descent as if uncertain whether they would ever arrive at the bottom. It was pitch black without a source of light. Mara cuddled close to Talis, her arms snaking around his waist, the soft exhalations of her breath landing on his neck. He felt uncomfortable and his heart raced. Her small fingers felt along his chest and she wormed her way even closer and started to whisper something in his ear. The lift suddenly jolted as they reached the bottom. What was she going to say? She jumped out of the lift and dashed down the passageway until they reached Shade’s Gate next to the upper part of Fiskar’s Market. Talis frowned and wondered if he ever would understand the minds of girls. Today was Hanare, the sacred day of the Goddess Nacrea, eighth day of the week—a day free from study and work. At least for the royals. In Fiskar’s Market, most commoners still toiled, preparing for Magare, the first day of the week and market day. But still, children chased chickens lazily through the market stalls and old men played Chano, staring at the chipped granite pieces as if waiting for a mystery to unfold.

Usually royals believed that going down to shop or eat in the lower part of the city was beneath their station. That’s why Talis and Mara almost always went there to escape prying eyes. Especially now, since if they were seen together, it would mean trouble for the both of them. As they strolled down the freshly-washed cobblestone street, Mara whispered to Talis that her mother was still upset and they had to be careful. “I told her it was my fault, but she still feels you were partially to blame. I feel awful, Talis.” Mara studied him, her eyes filled with apprehension. “You warned me not to go after that boar. I should have listened to you. I’m sorry.” “It’s alright. You’re safe, that’s all that matters to me.” Mara reached out and took his hand, eyes warm and tender. They continued walking together and took the trader’s way to Fiskar’s Market. Around the upper shops, down an alleyway stacked with crates, inside a warehouse door, past workers loading crates, until they reached the dark warehouse room that led to a corridor winding around and down to a lift. The workers averted their eyes when they used the lift, as if they thought it wasn’t their business to notice a few royal kids stalking around in the building. Talis and Mara hopped on the lift. She grabbed his hand as the lift jolted, starting their descent several hundred feet down into the darkness. Talis always felt a thrill from the descent as if uncertain whether they would ever arrive at the bottom. It was pitch black without a source of light. Mara cuddled close to Talis, her arms snaking around his waist, the soft exhalations of her breath landing on his neck. He felt uncomfortable and his heart raced. Her small fingers felt along his chest and she wormed her way even closer and started to whisper something in his ear. The lift suddenly jolted as they reached the bottom. What was she going to say? She jumped out of the lift and dashed down the passageway until they reached Shade’s Gate next to the upper part of Fiskar’s Market. Talis frowned and wondered if he ever would understand the minds of girls. Today was Hanare, the sacred day of the Goddess Nacrea, eighth day of the week—a day free from study and work. At least for the royals. In Fiskar’s Market, most commoners still toiled, preparing for Magare, the first day of the week and market day. But still, children chased chickens lazily through the market stalls and old men played Chano, staring at the chipped granite pieces as if waiting for a mystery to unfold. Old women

We are conditioned to look for justice in life and when it doesn’t appear, we tend to feel anger, anxiety or frustration. Actually, it would be equally productive to search for the fountain of youth, or some such myth. Justice does not exist. It never has, and it never will. The world is simply not put together that way. Robins eat worms. That’s not fair to the worms. Spiders eat flies. That’s not fair to the flies. Cougars kill coyotes. Coyotes kill badgers. Badgers kill mice. Mice kill bugs. Bugs...You have only to look at nature to realize there is no justice in the world. Tornadoes, floods, tidal waves, draughts are all unfair. It is a mythological concept, this justice business. The world and the people in it go on being unfair every day. You can choose to be happy or unhappy, but it has nothing to do with the lack of justice you see around you.

Usually royals believed that going down to shop or eat in the lower part of the city was beneath their station. That’s why Talis and Mara almost always went there to escape prying eyes. Especially now, since if they were seen together, it would mean trouble for the both of them. As they strolled down the freshly-washed cobblestone street, Mara whispered to Talis that her mother was still upset and they had to be careful. “I told her it was my fault, but she still feels you were partially to blame. I feel awful, Talis.” Mara studied him, her eyes filled with apprehension. “You warned me not to go after that boar. I should have listened to you. I’m sorry.” “It’s alright. You’re safe, that’s all that matters to me.” Mara reached out and took his hand, eyes warm and tender. They continued walking together and took the trader’s way to Fiskar’s Market. Around the upper shops, down an alleyway stacked with crates, inside a warehouse door, past workers loading crates, until they reached the dark warehouse room that led to a corridor winding around and down to a lift. The workers averted their eyes when they used the lift, as if they thought it wasn’t their business to notice a few royal kids stalking around in the building. Talis and Mara hopped on the lift. She grabbed his hand as the lift jolted, starting their descent several hundred feet down into the darkness. Talis always felt a thrill from the descent as if uncertain whether they would ever arrive at the bottom. It was pitch black without a source of light. Mara cuddled close to Talis, her arms snaking around his waist, the soft exhalations of her breath landing on his neck. He felt uncomfortable and his heart raced. Her small fingers felt along his chest and she wormed her way even closer and started to whisper something in his ear. The lift suddenly jolted as they reached the bottom. What was she going to say? She jumped out of the lift and dashed down the passageway until they reached Shade’s Gate next to the upper part of Fiskar’s Market. Talis frowned and wondered if he ever would understand the minds of girls. Today was Hanare, the sacred day of the Goddess Nacrea, eighth day of the week—a day free from study and work. At least for the royals. In Fiskar’s Market, most commoners still toiled, preparing for Magare, the first day of the week and market day. But still, children chased chickens lazily through the market stalls and old men played Chano, staring at the chipped granite pieces as if waiting for a mystery to unfold.

Usually royals believed that going down to shop or eat in the lower part of the city was beneath their station. That’s why Talis and Mara almost always went there to escape prying eyes. Especially now, since if they were seen together, it would mean trouble for the both of them.   As they strolled down the freshly-washed cobblestone street, Mara whispered to Talis that her mother was still upset and they had to be careful.  “I told her it was my fault, but she still feels you were partially to blame. I feel awful, Talis.” Mara studied him, her eyes filled with apprehension. “You warned me not to go after that boar. I should have listened to you. I’m sorry.” “It’s alright. You’re safe, that’s all that matters to me.” Mara reached out and took his hand, eyes warm and tender. They continued walking together and took the trader’s way to Fiskar’s Market. Around the upper shops, down an alleyway stacked with crates, inside a warehouse door, past workers loading crates, until they reached the dark warehouse room that led to a corridor winding around and down to a lift.  The workers averted their eyes when they used the lift, as if they thought it wasn’t their business to notice a few royal kids stalking around in the building. Talis and Mara hopped on the lift. She grabbed his hand as the lift jolted, starting their descent several hundred feet down into the darkness.  Talis always felt a thrill from the descent as if uncertain whether they would ever arrive at the bottom. It was pitch black without a source of light. Mara cuddled close to Talis, her arms snaking around his waist, the soft exhalations of her breath landing on his neck. He felt uncomfortable and his heart raced. Her small fingers felt along his chest and she wormed her way even closer and started to whisper something in his ear.  The lift suddenly jolted as they reached the bottom. What was she going to say? She jumped out of the lift and dashed down the passageway until they reached Shade’s Gate next to the upper part of Fiskar’s Market. Talis frowned and wondered if he ever would understand the minds of girls. Today was Hanare, the sacred day of the Goddess Nacrea, eighth day of the week—a day free from study and work. At least for the royals. In Fiskar’s Market, most commoners still toiled, preparing for Magare, the first day of the week and market day. But still, children chased chickens lazily through the market stalls and old men played Chano, staring at the chipped granite pieces as if waiting for a mystery to unfold.