the loft is this place where you can dance dance dance. its in the heart of a dirty pretty sweaty city and everyone goes there, and even he went there that night he stepped on my heart. part of me wants to go there too, so i can dance dance dance on the floors he danced on and maybe break a piece of him too.
i can not wait to live in my very own personal loft over looking the city. i know that then i will have made it. i’ll be happy and cozy studying my little heart out. ohhhhh my gosh i need help with my math homework :( :( :(
The loft stood above everything and everyone. It towered over people, houses, buildings, and flags. Often one walking along on the street would look up at it with their eyes covered to block out the glaring sun. They would look up and wonder what lay upon such a platform, so far from anyone else.
I remember jumping from the loft of the barn into the giant hay bales at the bottom, laughing as the itchy bits lodged themselves in my clothes, my hair, scratching the back of my neck. My three sisters and my brother smiled too – for once, we got along.
a loft is someplace safe, protected, and alone for someone to be above everytinhg else going on in the world. a loft can be used for a hideout, secret meetings or as a metaphor for an elated feeling or expression. loftiness comes from bein happy, and a loft is somewhere to be happy
hidden away, the children burrowed under blankets with flashlights, reading books and giggling late into the night. the loft was their safe place of imagination, away from the adults who crushed their creativity and quieted their minds.
he was lofty. he was ever hovering just over everyone else’s social status. he was always a short incline away from everyone else’s standing on the cast pyramid.
i was just getting back from some serious snowboarding when i realized the lights were on in my loft. Joanna was home, and awake. Great, She always makes me feel warm. Even on these excruciatingly painful winter days.
The room was cool and comforting, isolated by friendly. It was the kind of loft that made you feel at ease, like you were able to lye down in a bed of flowers and not care about the thorns. The loft was unique, and mine.
The geese were flying southward as the season grew colder. Tom crouched in the bushes and clenched his weapon, eyes affixed to the oncoming flock. He knew this time, his hunting skills would finally yield a good kill. He held his breath, took aim and lofted his sledgehammer skyward. Missed. “Next time,” he thought, “I’ll bring a step ladder.”
My aunt used to have a loft in her apartment. I once dropped a potted plant off of the ledge; it landed on her bed and spilled potting soil and broken clay everywhere.
The ball left his fingers, winging its way across the field. Had he thrown too hard? Too high? Would someone catch it when it arched down on the other side?
Sometimes, my dad sleeps in the loft. It’s not that my parents have any type of marital problems, he just snores a lot. When I come home late from hanging out with my friends, I often hear him snoring above me.
i want to live in a studio loft someday. a small place, with a small bed, and a room for painting and making music and drawing and taking photos and making videos and things, and of course, a kitchen. a little refrigerator with a little bit of food – maybe some lettuce and chobani yogurt, my two favourite foods.
There was once a beautiful loft in NYC that I found super charming. I wanted to buy it but couoldn\t afford it When i tried to purchase it, the woman next door took me to the corner and said no, end of story
Inside the loft air was cool and calming, silent and comforting. It was an atmosphere of adoration and protection. It was her brother, putting an arm aroudn her when her father left, her mother kissing the top of her hair. It was love.
up in the corner of the room, high up in the sky, always creepily dark. No one knew what was up there or who was in it, but it was the infamous loft of love. People all over the world came to be in there together.
We climbed the ladder as quietly as possible, taking care not to disturb any socks and knock them onto my sleeping roommate below. Pulling the covers over us, we stifled a giggle and began to smooch each other on the cheek.
Juno, the movie, the one girl, Jennifer Garner’s character’s husband divorces her and gets into a loft, he calls it. And she says “Well aren’t you the cool guy?”
I always wanted to live in a loft. The coolness of that sort of person, and the sophisticated lifestyle appeals to me. But with three children, a husband and a dog. How is loft living possible? It’s not. What a mess.
I used to live live in a loft in the middle of downtown Chicago. I was surrounded by oversexed, toxic barbarians. I fell in love and a=got arrested. A become and god who couldn’t stop crying.
High in the loft I was sleeping like a baby. Terrible dreams. I guess I rolled over too far and fell. The fall kicked me awake but in not enough time. SPLAT. I landed on the hardwood. Dazed, I held my head. That’s going to hurt.
It was a small loft in New York City, but it would do for her. She needed to lay low due to the mafia, but with Brett by her side, she knew that everything would be okay. She checked her cell phone again. …why hadn’t he called?
Up in the loft there are toys and laughter
memories of all the kids rolling and imagining
a simple stuffed bear was best friend and companion,
a walk to the ladder was an adventure
Up in the loft, even the cobwebs are in on the joke
The house as large, and I’d finally get my own room—I was oldest so I got the very first choice. The room I chose was fairly small, but when you looked up the ceiling was high and there was a loft built—I decided that is where I would put my bed.
Water rolls
down my eyes,
and his caressed
by my lips,
touching down
on the harsh words
that taste
of salt,
floating in the ocean
of remarks,
evaporating into the thin air
we breathe.
I want a loft. I want an amazing life, with a husband, three kids, a dog, and a bearded dragon. I want to be a socialite with tons of friends that gossip and talk about other people, not out of self consciousness but because that’s just what we do. I want to be popular.
The Ann Frank portrait came down from on high and landed on the Neo Nazi. He screamed as the weight of the irony, not just the solid oak picture frame came crashing on him.
The loft that Mary lived in was small, but it gave her the comfort she always expected. It was plain, easy to maintain; no more would she have to deal with strange hotel rooms every night and the smell of unfamiliar cologne that suffocated the air about her.
It was unlike a woman of such questionable background to have ever asked the forgiveness from a priest, especially in the city. In a mausoleum of red lights, concrete, and the deathly smells of the underworld, sin runs rampant among the people. Sodom couldn’t have created a better haven for the Seven Deadlies to play. Needless to say, it was a surprise to Father Grayson that on the eve of the Easter Celebration, Mary wandered into his church.
Father Grayson and his Deacons had been busy preparing the Altar for Mass in the morning, decorating the pulpit with violet and yellow flowers that begot the atmosphere in that vaulted ceiling Church with an air of freshness and rebirth. Mary had wandered in from the hard, driving rain and stood on the back, shaking the water from her jacket and letting it sink into the aging, green carpet. She noticed that each pew had been polished by hand, delicately, with love. The sconces burned bright with halogen lights and wrapped the busy Church Ministry in a cloak of divine grace.
Mary cussed at herself for having come this far. As the poignant letter F and its successive letters came pouring from her mouth, she corked it quickly with her hand. She then dismissed the foul outburst, remembering she’d done far worse in a church before. Mary’s attention focused on Father Grayson, the man in black. His
collarino was well pressed and complemented his graying head. The white collar on his shirt choked his wrinkled but muscular neck. His aged, worn face made him appear like more of a Johnny Cash then of a priest.
is a place where i live in my head
the walls are open and the ceiling looms above
but it’s weightless
and i am open to chance
to height to breath to air
like a small house?
the loft is this place where you can dance dance dance. its in the heart of a dirty pretty sweaty city and everyone goes there, and even he went there that night he stepped on my heart. part of me wants to go there too, so i can dance dance dance on the floors he danced on and maybe break a piece of him too.
i can not wait to live in my very own personal loft over looking the city. i know that then i will have made it. i’ll be happy and cozy studying my little heart out. ohhhhh my gosh i need help with my math homework :( :( :(
The loft stood above everything and everyone. It towered over people, houses, buildings, and flags. Often one walking along on the street would look up at it with their eyes covered to block out the glaring sun. They would look up and wonder what lay upon such a platform, so far from anyone else.
I remember jumping from the loft of the barn into the giant hay bales at the bottom, laughing as the itchy bits lodged themselves in my clothes, my hair, scratching the back of my neck. My three sisters and my brother smiled too – for once, we got along.
a loft is someplace safe, protected, and alone for someone to be above everytinhg else going on in the world. a loft can be used for a hideout, secret meetings or as a metaphor for an elated feeling or expression. loftiness comes from bein happy, and a loft is somewhere to be happy
hidden away, the children burrowed under blankets with flashlights, reading books and giggling late into the night. the loft was their safe place of imagination, away from the adults who crushed their creativity and quieted their minds.
he was lofty. he was ever hovering just over everyone else’s social status. he was always a short incline away from everyone else’s standing on the cast pyramid.
i was just getting back from some serious snowboarding when i realized the lights were on in my loft. Joanna was home, and awake. Great, She always makes me feel warm. Even on these excruciatingly painful winter days.
The room was cool and comforting, isolated by friendly. It was the kind of loft that made you feel at ease, like you were able to lye down in a bed of flowers and not care about the thorns. The loft was unique, and mine.
The geese were flying southward as the season grew colder. Tom crouched in the bushes and clenched his weapon, eyes affixed to the oncoming flock. He knew this time, his hunting skills would finally yield a good kill. He held his breath, took aim and lofted his sledgehammer skyward. Missed. “Next time,” he thought, “I’ll bring a step ladder.”
Tonight I loft. In my loveseat, dog hair and everything. With a wheat beer and perhaps a box of cereal. Dry. Alone. Nice.
My aunt used to have a loft. I knocked a potted plant off the ledge once; it landed on her bed and spilled potting soil and broken clay everywhere.
My aunt used to have a loft in her apartment. I once dropped a potted plant off of the ledge; it landed on her bed and spilled potting soil and broken clay everywhere.
The ball left his fingers, winging its way across the field. Had he thrown too hard? Too high? Would someone catch it when it arched down on the other side?
Sometimes, my dad sleeps in the loft. It’s not that my parents have any type of marital problems, he just snores a lot. When I come home late from hanging out with my friends, I often hear him snoring above me.
i want to live in a studio loft someday. a small place, with a small bed, and a room for painting and making music and drawing and taking photos and making videos and things, and of course, a kitchen. a little refrigerator with a little bit of food – maybe some lettuce and chobani yogurt, my two favourite foods.
There was once a beautiful loft in NYC that I found super charming. I wanted to buy it but couoldn\t afford it When i tried to purchase it, the woman next door took me to the corner and said no, end of story
Inside the loft air was cool and calming, silent and comforting. It was an atmosphere of adoration and protection. It was her brother, putting an arm aroudn her when her father left, her mother kissing the top of her hair. It was love.
up in the corner of the room, high up in the sky, always creepily dark. No one knew what was up there or who was in it, but it was the infamous loft of love. People all over the world came to be in there together.
We climbed the ladder as quietly as possible, taking care not to disturb any socks and knock them onto my sleeping roommate below. Pulling the covers over us, we stifled a giggle and began to smooch each other on the cheek.
Juno, the movie, the one girl, Jennifer Garner’s character’s husband divorces her and gets into a loft, he calls it. And she says “Well aren’t you the cool guy?”
As of yesterday, lofty dreams seem low enough to touch.
Lofty ideals have no takers in the world. I wouldn’t say today’s world, but the world in general. Period.
I always wanted to live in a loft. The coolness of that sort of person, and the sophisticated lifestyle appeals to me. But with three children, a husband and a dog. How is loft living possible? It’s not. What a mess.
I used to live live in a loft in the middle of downtown Chicago. I was surrounded by oversexed, toxic barbarians. I fell in love and a=got arrested. A become and god who couldn’t stop crying.
loft. lofting. lofter. lofted. loft. poft. moft. soft. goft. boft. joft. noft. noft. hoft. hmmm…. lofted bed in college
High in the loft I was sleeping like a baby. Terrible dreams. I guess I rolled over too far and fell. The fall kicked me awake but in not enough time. SPLAT. I landed on the hardwood. Dazed, I held my head. That’s going to hurt.
It was a small loft in New York City, but it would do for her. She needed to lay low due to the mafia, but with Brett by her side, she knew that everything would be okay. She checked her cell phone again. …why hadn’t he called?
there was a loft above the barn. she went there to escape from the daily hem and haw of her parents not knowing what they wanted.
Up in the loft there are toys and laughter
memories of all the kids rolling and imagining
a simple stuffed bear was best friend and companion,
a walk to the ladder was an adventure
Up in the loft, even the cobwebs are in on the joke
The house as large, and I’d finally get my own room—I was oldest so I got the very first choice. The room I chose was fairly small, but when you looked up the ceiling was high and there was a loft built—I decided that is where I would put my bed.
Water rolls
down my eyes,
and his caressed
by my lips,
touching down
on the harsh words
that taste
of salt,
floating in the ocean
of remarks,
evaporating into the thin air
we breathe.
I want a loft. I want an amazing life, with a husband, three kids, a dog, and a bearded dragon. I want to be a socialite with tons of friends that gossip and talk about other people, not out of self consciousness but because that’s just what we do. I want to be popular.
The Ann Frank portrait came down from on high and landed on the Neo Nazi. He screamed as the weight of the irony, not just the solid oak picture frame came crashing on him.
The loft that Mary lived in was small, but it gave her the comfort she always expected. It was plain, easy to maintain; no more would she have to deal with strange hotel rooms every night and the smell of unfamiliar cologne that suffocated the air about her.
It was unlike a woman of such questionable background to have ever asked the forgiveness from a priest, especially in the city. In a mausoleum of red lights, concrete, and the deathly smells of the underworld, sin runs rampant among the people. Sodom couldn’t have created a better haven for the Seven Deadlies to play. Needless to say, it was a surprise to Father Grayson that on the eve of the Easter Celebration, Mary wandered into his church.
Father Grayson and his Deacons had been busy preparing the Altar for Mass in the morning, decorating the pulpit with violet and yellow flowers that begot the atmosphere in that vaulted ceiling Church with an air of freshness and rebirth. Mary had wandered in from the hard, driving rain and stood on the back, shaking the water from her jacket and letting it sink into the aging, green carpet. She noticed that each pew had been polished by hand, delicately, with love. The sconces burned bright with halogen lights and wrapped the busy Church Ministry in a cloak of divine grace.
Mary cussed at herself for having come this far. As the poignant letter F and its successive letters came pouring from her mouth, she corked it quickly with her hand. She then dismissed the foul outburst, remembering she’d done far worse in a church before. Mary’s attention focused on Father Grayson, the man in black. His
collarino was well pressed and complemented his graying head. The white collar on his shirt choked his wrinkled but muscular neck. His aged, worn face made him appear like more of a Johnny Cash then of a priest.
a place in new york whewe the rich people live. a place with high celiings and large walls . a place where i would love to call my home as well.
Really oneword? We’re doing this? Loft?
I like apartments with lofts.
They’re very lofty.
They fulfill my life with loft-ness.
How’s that
the clouds held aloft
foretell dark cold, rains ahead
better get my hat
is a place where i live in my head
the walls are open and the ceiling looms above
but it’s weightless
and i am open to chance
to height to breath to air