Sentences with phrase «floor writing this my thoughts»

As I sit here on my bathroom floor writing this my thoughts are turned to my own father.

Not exact matches

«From a technical standpoint, there is some resistance that will put the asset [bitcoin] to the test,» wrote Naeem Aslam, chief market analyst at Think Markets U.K. «But a move above $ 10K could be very explosive and that would open the floor towards the $ 15K mark.»

Rather than writing about this myself, I thought I'd open the floor to some Christian brothers and sisters who can explain what evangelical support of Phil Robertson communicates to them.

If this article was written at the begginin of the year, everyone (includin myself, though I thought we would finish with a winnin season and get in on a wild card bid) would've hit the floor holdin their stomachs..

Ozil, who had thrown his shirt to the floor, writes: «[Mourinho shouts]: «You think two beautiful passes are enough... you think you're so good that 50 per cent is enough».

You are welcome to attend the meeting on the 8th, to be held at the county building 411 Main St 4th floor conference room @ 6 pm, and please take some time to write your legislator with your thoughts about the project.

There are rules; there are ethics regarding lobbying and we in Ghana think that lobbying is taking money, giving it to MPs and writing pieces for them to go articulate on the floor.

Senator Ruben Diaz, Sr., who opposes same - sex marriage and who «pledged not to support anyone for majority leader who would not promise him - in writing - never to bring the bill that would legalize same - sex marriages to the floor» was asked by reporters, dodged questions about whether he thought same - sex marriage would come to the floor for a vote this year, saying only that he was «satisfied with whatever happens.»

And sitting at a table in the building's first - floor restaurant, the Café Synapse, is the neuroscientist who has come closer than anyone ever thought possible to finding the place where memories are written in the brain.

Interview written and conducted by Thierry Somers Images from top to bottom: Liam Gillick: The Thought Style Meets The Thought Collective, exhibition view, ground floor gallery, room 1, Maureen Paley, London, 2015 Liam Gillick: The Thought Style Meets The Thought Collective, exhibition view, first floor gallery, room 2, Maureen Paley, London, 2015 Liam Gillick: The Thought Style Meets The Thought Collective, exhibition view, first floor gallery, room 3, Maureen Paley, London, 2015 © the artist, courtesy Maureen Paley, London

, 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,