Sentences with phrase «already running out of room»

We are already running out of room in landfills.
I had to control myself because we were already running out of room for things to bring back home.
: / I already ran out of room where I was so they are mostly just in storage right now.

Not exact matches

this kid had it all and could have been truly great but guess what, you can take the kid out of the hood but you can't always take the hood out of the kid, sterling hangs around with a bunch of idiots who think posting their mate online doing laughing gas is clever and there all living in London, bringing him in would be a huge mistake in my opinion and those of you suggesting to offer theo and money, Im so glad you don't run the club, theo is the best r winger in the league when fit, we also have Wellington silva coming back, not to mention ox to cover or Sanchez if we want to play Danny or mezut on the left, let city have Raheem and let their already volatile dressing room implode, let's get Cech, lacazette and a solid dm to compete with le coq, sell Chesney to inter for good money podolski could be used as make weight for Morgan or the like release flamini let arteta and Roz have there last season if they choose or let them go if they want more first team football, Rio to have one more loan Diaby pay as you play and last promote chuba who clearly is going to be an animal, with this I believe the title is ours and if the new 3 settle a real tilt at the cl is possible but please gooners get behind theo he is absolutely essential COYG
She was quite tall already and seemed like she was running out of room.
No more figuring out what to do with all the books I've already read and run out of room for.
, 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,
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