Sentences with phrase «sound of a crackling fire»

Upon booting up The Librarian, the single person project of developer Octavi Navarro, you are immediately swept up by the sounds of a crackling fire, howling wind and the simple message: «To my dad.»

Not exact matches

Flavors that sound like the crackling of a wood fire or the rustling of leaves.

Those sounds include a snake hissing, adults» angry voices, a crackling fire, thunder claps and — as a possible indicator of a nearby but unseen danger — another infant's cries.

Do you hear the sound of the waterfall, or the sound of the fire crackling in the fireplace, or the stream running down the sides of the bank and the birds chirping in the trees?

It does look pretty though, & watching it from the cosy safety of a little middle - of - nowhere cabin, with a warm crackling fire & hot cocoa does sound heavenly!

I like crackling sounds of fires on cold nights.

There is little dialogue or music — Axel lingers on the sounds of a crackling kitchen fire, wine poured into glasses, spoons clinking against the bottom of bowls, the crunch of cooked quail heads as they're bitten into.

Unlike many luxury villas in Mexico, Penasco comes with your very own telescope so you can get up close and personal with the little dipper while the sound of the fire in your outdoor firepit crackles next to you.

A BEACH FIRE Enjoy a cozy cuddle around a crackling beach fire with your feet in the sand and the sound of the surf serenading.

Cozy Up By a Beach Fire: Dig your feet in the cool sand and cuddle up around a crackling beach fire with the sound of the surf serenadFire: Dig your feet in the cool sand and cuddle up around a crackling beach fire with the sound of the surf serenadfire with the sound of the surf serenading.

Just imagine cooking s» mores in the crackling fire with the sounds of the surf crashing in the background.

, 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,

Within this confined enclosure, amidst the sound of toads, ticking clocks and crackling fire, the artist projects his dramatic vision.

I love a real fireplace with the crackling of dry wood and the sound of the roaring fire.

What I love about fall: My thoughts turn from gardening to snuggling up in front of a warm crackling fire, a good book and mug of hot chocolate piled high with whipped cream... When it's still 80 degrees and it feels and smells like fall... The sound of the school bus ambling down our street on the first day of school stopping at the corner to pick the precious cargo of squealing kids... As I walk through our yard hearing the crunch of crackling leaves... Chunky winter sweaters - every September I buy a new one... Watching our resident squirrels scurrying around our yard gathering and burying their winter stash... Replacing summer flowers with purple and white cabbages.