Sentences with phrase «floor ran past»

Three of them, the tile floor ran past.

Not exact matches

During live action in the fourth quarter, a fan ran onto the floor wearing a customized shirt that said «We Miss You, 2014 Come Back» and brushed past LeBron before play stopped and a security guard apprehended the interloper.

It feels like it should run well past that, but it also feels silly to declare, with any real degree of confidence, that the NBA will be played — with a rubber ball, blocking fouls, 10 - feet rims, and a floor that isn't made out of trampolines — in, say, the year 2914.

«When she ran past our bench in warmups, the floor vibrated.»

While walking the floor at the ABC Kids Expo this past September, I ran into my friend and Editor - In - Chief of FitPregnancy magazine, Peg Moline.

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They walked through an open space where young men in blue shirts sat in cubicles with multiple screens, down a corridor, past another open space of cluttered cubicles and into a sunny office with a four — paneled glass window running from wall to wall and floor to ceiling, the thousand autumn — drenched trees and proud towers of Manhattan standing outside.

Truthfully this wasn't the end of the world — we've had a great run of luck with our reservations at the Maui Ocean Club in that we've always managed to get a high floor in the past so it's probably about time we got a slightly lower floor.

In the next room break the mannequins for some [Agent Honor (Blue)-RSB- and run past the infinite Shadow spawn point on the wall and on the floor over towards the back right corner of the room.

, 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,

This is the latest installation in Tate Modern's Turbine Hall — a series of wow - factor installations that have, over the past decade, included Doris Salcedo's Shibboleth, a deep fissure running through the concrete floor of the building, and Olafur Eliasson's The Weather Project, which filled the space with mist and mirrors.