Sentences with phrase «coming through the doors between»

I could see soft light coming out the high level windows over the runs, and coming through the doors between inside and outside runs.

Not exact matches

The transition period between Ferguson leaving and today has been tough on the team but De Gea has never wavered and been the most important player in that period, and one that each manager who has come through the door can rely on.

The following details come from Gematsu... - 3D Mode characters move vividly in a three - dimensional world - in 2D Mode, the game is depicted in nostalgic pixel graphics - at the start of your adventure, 3D Mode is depicted on the upper screen, and 2D Mode is depicted on the lower screen - when the two modes are displayed at the same time, conversations and such are displayed on the upper screen when using the slide pad - on the lower screen when using the d - pad - As you progress, you will choose which one of the two modes to you want to continue playing with - can visit the church to switch between modes - in 3D mode, monsters will attack if they notice the protagonist running by - with 2D mode, you will encounter monsters randomly while walking - will be able to see the «Memories of Your Journey» at certain places - with 3DS version, you can look back on important scenes in the story that you have already seen in your favorite visual mode - allows you to also see how that scene played out in the style you are not playing in - a village where a special tribe among the Incarnations of Time known as the «Yocchi» live - here you can make use of the system's StreetPass features - also discover a dungeon that only the Yocchi can enter called the «Labyrinth Beyond Time» - send in the Yocchi you gathered through StreetPass to explore - exploring the Labyrinth Beyond Time may open the door to surprises - Yocchi have an important mission, and want the protagonist to help them carry it out - in order to help the Yocchi, it seems that it is necessary to find «Adventure Log Passwords» in the Labyrinth Beyond Time

, 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,