I sometimes read books on my iPad.
Sometimes what works in a book is too "in your face" when converted to the big screen and sound.
. . . You'd think the little part about them supposedly killing us would be the attention getter.
I love the sound of it," Trina whispers, as if speaking too loudly might interrupt the drumming patter of the rain outside. "It makes me want to sleep. Snuggle my head right up in your armpit and snore for three days. " "My armpit?" Mark repeats. "Good thing we all showered up in the storm this morning. My pits smell like roses. Go ahead and get comfy.
Ah, my Knight in Shining Armor. What, you don't think I can fend for myself?
We were lining up and counting off nice and easy till you came stumbling through like a doped-up bull,' Minho responded.
Thomas had a depressing - and scary - thought. 'Am I. . . replacing someone? Did somebody get killed?' Minho shook his head. 'No, we're just training you - someone'll want a break. Don't worry, it's been a while since a Runner was killed. ' For some reason that last statement worried Thomas, though he hoped it didn't show on his face.
Time has a doomsday book, upon whose pages he is continually recording illustrious names. But as often as a new name is written there, an old one disappears. Only a few stand in illuminated characters never to be effaced.
Through meditation and gentle cooperation, the body will heal itself with little or no effort.
There is an awful lot of what I call recreational jazz going on, where people go out and learn a particular language or style and become real sharks on somebody else's language.
Books were the sustenance of God. And His munitions.