CALORIES IN 1 CUP 1 MILK

Nature's Way Metabolic ReSet, Vanilla, 630g

How it works: The key is its combination of patented Viscofiber (highly viscous, soluble oat beta-glucan concentrate) and whey protein isolate. The Viscofiber proprietary blend makes Metabolic ReSet different than other weight loss supplements or simple meal replacement powders. This unique formula works in the following ways: 1. Creates a Satisfying Feeling of fullness. Metabolic ReSet expands in the digestive tract, resulting in a prolonged sense of fullness. By avoiding feelings of hunger, you can comfortably eat less food, less often, and consume fewer calories. 2. Lowers the Body's lycemic Response to Foods. Metabolic ReSet slows the digestion of carbohydrates (especially from high glycemic index foods), resulting in reduced cravings and a less frequent desire to eat.

Nick wakes up in the dark. Again.

What time is it? He doesn’t know. Wonders... Does it matter? And... What is time, anyway?

The passage of breaths, of heartbeats, of lives? Is it nothing but counting? Does it count?

His mouth is dry. Slowly he uncurls himself, shaking with cold as his belly, his chest, his arms and legs surrender their sleep-hoarded warmth to the damp hard irregular earth. He drags himself like an ape, using his skinny arms as levers... butt barely leaving the ground as he makes his way to the far wall, some 10 feet away, where water seeps from somewhere... a flat soundless skin of it wetting what he assumes is stone, although it could be concrete, or steel, or even wood for all Nick knows.

He has lost the feeling in his fingertips. Long ago. And knows only that this wet patch he licks – sometimes for so long he falls asleep doing it – is hard and strangely textured and tastes flat against his tongue.

He laps at the seepage. It has kept him alive. For how long? He no longer has any sense of that.

Hunger. He has moved so far beyond hunger that the long stringy pains that grip him from the inside he considers little more an interesting distraction.

Beetles. He has eaten beetles. Worms. Spiders. Small things that crunch. Things whose names he would not know, even if he saw them.

He laps at the wet spot, head resting, heavy, against the wall, and thinks about the effort it will take to return to the dryer, softer end of the cell where he sleeps.

There is little else to do here. Sleep. Drink. Eat. He cannot remember having urinated. Must have; must have defecated too, at some point. He has no recollection.

He feels his body consuming itself, eating itself, drinking itself, absorbing itself from the inside – fat, protein, carbohydrate. He pictures himself as food groups. He sees the gaudy triangle of greens and browns and oranges that they used in school nutrition classes – Canada’s food groups. The guide to healthy eating. It strikes him as hysterically funny.

He thinks he may have laughed out loud. But he can’t be sure of anything.

Back in his dry corner, curled again for warmth, he practices a kind of meditation he’s developed. He thinks about the sun. He pictures it, remembers it. Remembers days lying on the beach by the lake, days when the sun’s heat pressed his back like a huge, red weight, like a burning imperative.

His mind recalls other, different imperatives. The drive to work, to earn, to succeed. How vital they once seemed. How entirely meaningless now.

He thinks about his car, his computer, his apartment... his closet full of sharp suits and funky hats and cool shoes... and even cooler weekend wear.

He thinks about his TV, his stereo, his bar... his granite counters and his stainless steel appliances. He thinks about his balcony, his telescope, his view... the women he has wooed there, and won, and discarded.

Once he thought of all these things with longing... wondering... when would he get back to them? When would he be rescued? When would he emerge from this pit, this cell, this empty, dank, rough darkened place?

But now he has given up on thoughts of being resuced. He has given up on seeing his material things again. Has given up pretty much entirely... or tried to.

But the dumb deep animal part of his brain insists on strling for survival. And he can only meditate and sleep and dream... and hope against hope with each new sleep that it will be his last.

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