Sentences with phrase «really ending tomorrow»

If the deal is really ending tomorrow, wait until next week or next month.

Not exact matches

Yeah, remember all those mad things we used to do: — RRB --RRB- @Conor, she's a darling really... just don't get at the wrong end of her stick: — RRB - Me and bacon sarnies are easier to deal with... I actually managed to find English bacon here in Canada, can't wait for my sarnie tomorrow.

The forward also revealed that he is really enjoying his new central role, but will he fire the Gunners right back in to the title race and end another poor run against a big rival tomorrow?

Yes give the lad a chance we haven't really giving any of the youngsters a chance since the class of 99 now is the time to be blooding the youth of tomorrow or we'll end up like the gunners cherry picking from the rest of Europe manucho will be good given a chance too

I actually ended up with a low - key Halloween night (fine by me since I'm not really a fan) but spent lots of quality time with one of my besties, Katie, who's moving to Houston tomorrow.

Christmas can be a hard time to get the right gift, do you go with something fun, cause lots of laughs on the big day but you know will end up gathering dust in the corner by tomorrow or do you go for really practical...

So, when I said «tomorrow» at the end of my first Cloverfield article, what I really meant was when I damn well feel like it.

Just trying to get the right tire choice and pressures right is going to be tricky, but someone is really going to hit it right tomorrow and end up winning.

In an interview for the Rolling Stone magazine, the American artist explains that whether our life ends tomorrow or five decades from today, there will always be some things left undone, some unrealized ideas sitting in the back of the mind itching to be shown to the world; he never really feared facing it, as it never really mattered to him: he was doing what he wanted to do until his last day.

, 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 I knew that the world would end tomorrow, would I really plant an apple tree?