Sentences with phrase «lying about her memories»

Not exact matches

Sanchez — by far the most threatening player on our team, especially considering that Ozil has never been a goal scoring machine throughout his career... wished he and the team had dealt with the whole situation in a much better fashion because even if he end up staying his time here will always be tainted by the memories of this year... Wenger has always hated confrontation but this isn't like the crazy years of Bendner or even the back - and - forth that he would have experienced with leaders like Viera or Keown, this was a battle between a guy with a lust for winning versus a manager who had lied about being the same

New insights about the brain are changing the way the law handles cases related to adolescent decision making, the effects of drugs on the brain, memory and lie detection, and states of consciousness, among others.

Throw in your immune system's response (about 70 percent of your immune system lies in your gut), which includes the secretion of all sorts of inflammatory signals that also affect your brain, and you become chronically inflamed, leading to depression, erratic behavior, and even memory problems.

When I lie, I feel terrible about it as I am saying the words, like I am dishonoring the memory of our first daughter.

Amnesiac (Unrated) Psychological thriller about an accident victim with memory loss (Wes Bentley) who wonders whether his wife (Kate Bosworth) might be lying about her true identity when he emerges from a coma.

Within recent memory, I have seen among these groups lying about breed («boxer mix,» «lab mix»); offering dogs with known animal aggression («can NOT be in a home with cats»); agitating for a pit who killed a person to be spared and transferred to an - out - of - state «rescue;» directly encouraging people to bring their pits to dog - and child - filled charity events, etc..

, 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,

They are based on things I see, read about, and watch on TV, as well as memories of events, feelings and colors — the pink of my favorite childhood bathing suit, the first time I told a lie.

It triggered trips down memory lane, and daydreams about the journey that lies ahead of us.