Sentences with phrase «life under the sand»

It also spends 95 percent of its life under the sand or mud with only its eyes and nose exposed; yet as an ambush predator, it is in possession of a nice set of a claws, a lightning - fast head and jaws powerful enough to crush bone!

Not exact matches

Shiny rocks, real life sea shells, or other treasures hidden under the sand.

BENEATH Enceladus's icy shell, way under its global sea, seems to be a core made of wet sand, which could host life between its grains.

To live on a tropical island under tall palm trees with the white sand between their toes, surrounded by the clear blue sea is many people's dream, however to many it is a reality — with the trials which come with such places.

Elizabeth Berg imagines the life of Aurore Dupin — or George Sand, the pen name under which she found success — in The Dream Lover.

I then pull the sand boa out from under the shavings, as, true to their names, they spend the vast majority of their lives buried and out of sight.

They are incredibly hard to find as they live burrowed in the sand or occasionally under debris.

Fig. 3 Po - po - xlum, this 2» insect is very unusual in that it lives underground and makes burrows under the sand as seen in the next

After lounging on white sands under a palapa, treat yourself to other perks of resort life.

Hold hands under clear blue skies and leave your footprints in the sand — the first day of the rest of your life should begin in an idyllic paradise like Hawaii.

You'll see schools of razorfish, hermit crabs, cuttlefish, stingrays hiding out under the sand, sea horses and some incredible macro life.

The white sand beach is full of life with local food stalls and pleasant beach cafes spread out along the back of the beach under the shade of the palms where there are footpaths which are perfect for cycling, jogging and walking in the mornings or for an afternoon stole.

These include Still Living, an installation composed of eighty ash strips held under tension - a work that emerged from a dream about building a bamboo fishing pole - and Original River, a hollowed - out, riverine tree trunk filled with thousands of quartz pebbles sifted from Mississippi River sands over the course of two years.

, 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,

By now, if you have not heard of or seen 1000 references to the General Data Protection Regulation (GDPR), then I can only assume that you either have been hiding under a stone, or have elected to live with your head firmly inserted in sand.