Sentences with phrase «already felt out of place»

I already felt out of place and was feeling uncomfortable about the whole gimmick.

Not exact matches

Or when we have to run to the grocery store but feel self - conscious the whole time because we're wearing ratty jeans and an old t - shirt and we haven't showered and everyone in the place is staring at us and jeez, can we just get out of here already.

Chelsea is infront of us, the top 3 is already out of reach and watford buzz won't last and Chelsea will finish 4th... We will finish 6 behind Liverpool... The big 4 doesn't count us anymore... Spurs are solid as Chelsea who will actually fight for 3rd place with Spurs... I hope that you are pleased and sure you won't be mad if we finish 12th... Chelsea did a century ago with mourhino help and went right back on top of table... Oh, maybe we will do great next year, or the one after as long has it makes you happy... You should go and i'm sure you will get hired as Per... Please don't ever send comment, we real fans are in pain... Maybe you one of owners hiding or in another planet than football, just like them... Don't ever post comment, i felt to get a gun and shoot myself!

One of the advantages of living in the Middle East, I think, is that as expats we are already primed to seek each other out, we all feel we are in the same boat, even when we come from very different places.

I feel like the genre is at a turning point where it's about to be reinvigorated, I've already seen a few of the films coming out next year (ones that simultaneously fit the definitions of the genre while taking it to new places) and I think 2013 will represent a turning point.

Many retailers are already feeling the pinch of losing out to online retailers who can conduct their businesses across a broader consumer base and without the same overhead as paying rent on Main Street, then add to this the fact that faux - customers enter these places of business only to comparison shop.

By the time you're on your way out the door, your pet will be feeling better already; you'll have a new understanding of what makes them tick; and all of this will have taken place in a very pleasant and supportive environment.

, you are lying on the floor of your place looking up, a small draft runs through the room, between the door and the window, and all things seem perfectly still, wind only disturbs concrete in imperceptible ways, or it may take millions of years to be noticed and, as the air runs through the space, all your plants move and all is animated and all is alive somehow, and here are the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me, and that wind upon your plants is the common air that bathes the globe, and we have no ambitions of universalism, and I'm glad we don't, but the particles of air bring traces of pollen and are charged with electricity, desert sand, maybe sea water, and these particles were somewhere else before they were dragged here, and their route will not end by the door of this house, and if we tell each other stories, one can imagine that they might have been bathed by this same air, regrouped and recombined, recharged as a vehicle for sound, swirling as it moves, bringing the sound of a drum, like that Kabuki story where a fox recognizes the voice of its parents as a girl plays a drum made out of their skin, or any other event, and yet I always felt your work never tells stories, I tend to think that narrative implies a past tense, even if that past was just five seconds ago, one second ago was already the past, and human memory is irrelevant in geological time, plants and fish know not what tomorrow will bring, neither rocks nor metal do, but we all live here now, and we all need visions and we all need dreams, and as long as your metal sculptures vibrate they are always in the Present, and their past is a material truth alien to narrative, but well, maybe narrative does not imply a past tense at all and they are writing their own story while they gently move and breathe, and maybe nothing was really still before the wind came in, passing through the window as if through an irrational portal to make those plants dance, but everything was already moving and breathing in near complete silence, and if you're focused enough you can feel the pulse of a concrete wall and you can feel the tectonic movements of the earth, and you can hear the magma flowing under our feet and our bones crackling like a wild fire, and you can see the light of fireflies reflected in polished metal, and there is nothing magical about that, it is just the way things are, and sometimes we have to raise our voice because the music is too loud and let your clothes move to a powerful bass, sound waves and bright lights, powerful like the sun, blinding us if we stare for too long, but isn't it the biggest sign of love, like singing to a corn field, and all acts of kindness that are not pitiful nor utilitarian, that are truly horizontal as everything around us is impregnated with the deadliest violence, vertical and systemic, poisonous, and sometimes you just want to feel the sun burning your skin and look for life in all things declared dead, a kind of vitality that operates like corrosion, strong as the wind near the sea, transforming all things,