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Updated: May 24, 2025
Or they may begin coming home after work so tired that they can hardly stay awake and begin falling asleep in their Lazy Boy recliner in front of the TV even before prime time. If they're not so lucky they'll begin suffering the initial twinges of a non-life-threatening chronic condition like arthritis.
As in everything he did for his girl, Victor pointed boastfully to his forethought of her convenience and her tastes: the pine-panels of the interior, the shelves for her books, pegs to hang her favourite drawings, and the couch-bunk under a window to conceal the summerly recliner while throwing full light on her book; and the hearth-square for logs, when she wanted fire: because Fredi bathed in any weather: the oaken towel-coffer; the wood-carvings of doves, tits, fishes; the rod for the flowered silken hangings she was to choose, and have shy odalisque peeps of sunny water from her couch.
He was here to learn, then to make a decision, and the psionic computer was to serve him. As the table vanished and his chair became a recliner, he found himself looking forward to it. He might, he hoped, even find out what a psionic computer was. The miracles he was experiencing made it clear that it was something only the gods could build . . . or create. "Quite true."
As laid back as she was in her lazy-boy recliner of solitude she was like any couch potato who had too much of a good thing and it had been like that for a score of days. She needed to stretch. She needed to extend outward. Dear Hilda: Hmm, blisters, cold sores and the like. Gee god. I'm no nurse so what would I know? Iodine for the former and staying off your feet would be my only recommendation.
If his thoughts were in part an iconoclast's blaspheme against the family unit, a group that comprised all groups, they were also full of regret that, beyond a work of art, a mortal man could not change into the livery of another's skin, of a child who was proud of his Biadklang name and the parents who owned their own rice and noodle cart that was part of their sidewalk restaurant, of being their son if but a slave who was reproached and disparaged most awakened minutes, and of being in a fraternity, an eternity of belittling words sported against him to get the grin, chuckle, or tacit endorsement of the father emperor who, when at home, crossed one leg on another in his recliner and thumped his foot in an erotic gavel.
Ritchie flipped through the clipboard one more time before placing it on the table between his recliner and his wife's rocking chair. "Did you find anything useful?" Betty asked, without looking up from her knitting. Tom and Alona sat across from them on the coach, holding hands and gazing into each other's eyes. "Did we ever look that stupid?" Ritchie whispered.
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