The morning light in Mr. Sterling’s cottage always seemed to filter through the windows with a particular kind of reverence. He moved through his kitchen with the practiced grace of a man who had mastered his own impulses. Twice before, Mr. Sterling had conquered the unruly expansion of his waistline through the sheer discipline of fasting—a period of ascetic silence that had left him thin, but perhaps a bit too fragile for the damp winters of his small town. This time, he decided, the approach would be different. It would be a "gentle" correction.
He poured a glass of chilled, organic whole milk, watching the sunlight catch the creamy surface. Cell repair required materials, and he was no longer a young man who could thrive on air alone. Along with the dairy, he kept a tall carafe of spring water constantly at his side. He felt dignified, even noble, as he sipped his water and nibbled on a piece of artisanal cheese. His bank account was full, his pantry was curated, and his health was a project to be managed like a fine garden. For the first few days, the lightness returned to his step. He felt clean, hydrated, and remarkably successful. He was a man in total control of his biological destiny.
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