Sentences with phrase «irrelevant if this age»

However, this is completely irrelevant if this age is a long way away.

Not exact matches

Fourth, the old - style shepherding image shows, if it is rightly set forth, that our culture's movement from an agricultural to an industrial civilization need not render the metaphor irrelevant or meaningless, and that the basic needs that pastoral care tries to meet remain the same from age to age.

If American conservatism is unwilling to face the fact that economic freedom creates social and therefore political problems» political problems that will require in one way or another limiting economic freedom» it will be irrelevant to our age.

Injury has hampered much of her 2015 season but the youngster bounced back to regain her place in Nick Cushing's starting 11, proving age is irrelevant if you're good enough.

If you fall in love age usually becomes irrelevant so try not to confine your matches to a narrow age bracket.

If you happen to like someone say for instance younger men or older women and the other way around, this shows that you like that person for who she or he is proving that age is therefore irrelevant.

Vehicle age, mileage and reliability are irrelevant, plus caravans and trailers will also be towed if attached to your car.

You would think this wide range of knowledge would earn travel writers respect (if not a loyal following), but in an age of specialization it tends to do the opposite, painting them as irrelevant generalists.

There's no way of knowing if or when Nintendo will release a web browser for Switch, but it's a bold show of how irrelevant the web browser is becoming in the age of the «millennial».

, 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,

If age, gender, and marital status are irrelevant to your target job, omit them.