On a part of our life's map there lies a roseate, undecipherable haze, and that is all.
Of one thing, if I am at all to trust my own annals, I was delightedly conscious.

Day after day, in the sun-gilded cabin, the whiskey-dealer's thermometer stood at 84.

Day after day, the air had the same indescribable liveliness and sweetness, soft and nimble, and cool as the cheek of health.

Day after day the sun flamed; night after night the moon beaconed, or the stars paraded their lustrous regiment.

I was aware of a spiritual change, or, perhaps, rather a molecular reconstitution.
My bones were sweeter to me.