Really, I like the future. I appreciate my automatic alarm-call necklace in case I get lost and confused in a mall. I appreciate the watch that tells the hospital my blood pressure's gone ballistic. I like my computer, just as long as it doesn't get ideas above its workstation.
That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.
My dad was very successful running midgets in Texas. Then, his two drivers ran into some bad luck. People started saying that Daddy had lost his touch. That it was the cars and not the drivers. I wanted to race just to prove all those people wrong.
My goal? To test out every diet and exercise regimen on planet earth and figure out which work best. I sweated, I cooked, I learned to pole dance. In the end, I lost weight, lowered my cholesterol and doubled my energy level. I feel better than I ever have.
On the rare occasions when I spend a night in Oxford, the keeping of the hours by the clock towers in New College, and Merton, and the great booming of Tom tolling 101 times at 9 pm at Christ Church are inextricably interwoven with memories and regrets and lost joys. The sound almost sends me mad, so intense are the feelings it evokes.
I had lost faith in biography.
The way actors interact with their audience via Twitter is a part of their personality. So if I interact less, that is a part of my personality. I am mostly lost in my own world.
Lost in much of the national debate about immigration reform is how Democrats ultimately stand to gain electorally with any legislation or executive action that would put the newly legalized residents on a path to voting.
Singing is my entire life. I nearly lost that. I am so blessed to be able to do this. It's the only thing I've ever wanted to do.
Because Mr. Mandela's early opponents invested so many resources into distorting the true nature of his advocacy, the singular historic moment millions now celebrate could have been tragically lost to guerrilla decontextualization.