For a couple of days after chemotherapy, food tastes really bland, even the best foods. I haven't been sick, but have been a little tired. I haven't lost any weight.
The rat stops gnawing in the wood, the dungeon walls withdraw, the weight is lifted your pulse steadies and the sun has found your heart, the day was not bad, the season has not been bad, there is sense and even promise in going on.
I'm fighting a losing battle here: I'm trying to lose some weight. I love chocolate; that's one of my biggest downfalls. I haven't gotten a whole lot of chocolate, thank goodness, because I'd probably be about 300 pounds.
Is it a surprise that into the vessel, in which the mercury has no inclination and no repugnance, not even the slightest, to being there, it should enter and should rise in a column high enough to make equilibrium with the weight of the external air which forces it up?
You are - all your experience just kind of accumulates, and the novel takes a richness of its own simply because it has the weight of all those years that one's put into it.
At first I threw my weight upon my heels, as one does naturally in a boot, and was a good deal bruised, but after a few hours I learned the natural walk of man, and could follow my guide in any portion of the island.
