Sentences with phrase «room under that rock»

If you haven't, then I hope you have plenty of room under that rock of yours because I'm applying for roommate.

Not exact matches

Alfred's Tea Room — Unless you've been living under a rock, chances are your Instagram feed is flooded with pink snaps from Alfreds & for good reason.

«Under The Bridge» by the Red Hot Chili Peppers is heard when recovering addict is shamefully copping, «Sweet Jane» (the narcotic version by the Cowboy Junkies) plays when Nicole shoots heroin, a «With a Little Help From My Friends» soundtracks Whip's buddies giving him another pick - me - up, «Sympathy For The Devil» rocks out ironically after Whip recovers in the emergency room, and tunes like «Feelin» Alright» by Traffic and «Alcohol» by The Barenaked Ladies are employed on the nose as often as possible (curiously, «Cocaine» by Eric Clapton is missing when the blow gets trotted out).

Long married Nick (Adam Horowitz, aka Ad - Rock of The Beastie Boys) and Alyssa (Chloe Sevigny) perpetuate a frozen - under - glass marriage evidently instigated by a long - ago indiscretion by Nick, an archivist who works in a cramped little room downstairs from their Brooklyn apartment.

While our main buildings blend in with the rock formations of Yala, our uniquely shaped tents, called Cocoons & Urchins, represent a luxury five - star resort room under canvas, offering state - of - the art amenities.

, 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,

«Living area» is generally «Heated by a conventional heating system or systems (forced air, radiant, solar, etc.) permanently installed, finished, with walls, floors and ceilings of materials generally accepted for interior construction (e.g., painted drywall / sheet rock or paneled walls, carpeted or hardwood flooring, etc.) and with a ceiling height of at least seven feet, except under beams, ducts, etc. where the height must be at least six feet four inches [Note: In rooms with sloped ceilings (e.g., finished attics, bonus rooms, etc.) you may also include as living area the portion of the room with a ceiling height of at least five feet if at least one - half of the finished area of the room has a ceiling height of at least seven feet.]

LOVE the room and so jealous of the wood under your sheet rock!