take me up to montage, the scenes, how the scenery blurs and becomes the whomping willow, the day by the lake, the time I explored the city by myself and learned how to be myself
i see the movie in my mind like tech week watching myself go from the painfulness of cue-to-cue cue montage to make the time go faster so i’m standing at the curtain waiting for it to rise on my opening night MY opening night. montage to the time i’m spending. montage to the things i think i’m seeingin front of me but maybe, no. no not this time.
god damnit. a montage. the age of a mountain is what it means i believe. the montage of mount everest is a really large number. that bitch has been around for awhile.
We saw a movie together today and I basically saw a glimpse of what our near-future would look like. The film featured some notable actors and phrases, but you didn’t seem to pick up on the hilarity of most of the situations. Can I just assume that you’re not very bright, that you have yet to experience the wonderful culture of cinematography?
The montage of photos was chaotic. Created by slapping too many together any which way – or so it seemed at first. But as I looked closer, a story started to evolve. A story that suggested there was more to this montage than first appeared. One that showed careful consideration had gone into the photos. In fact, it looked as though the montage might well hold the answer to why my sister was murdered.
Create a montage. It’ll pass the time. That’s what it’s used for. To pass time in a short span of time. You can get a lot done. I guess if you look back on your life in the form of a montage, you can see all that you have accomplished.
what the hell is a montage? a montage of photos is a bunch of them right? a montage of events? well maybe that’s a lot of events.. all together. a montage of memories. now that’s something we all want. to be drowning in happy memories. there’s nothing better than reminiscing. i really don’t know what a montage is.
montage. I always pronounced it as Mont-a-je instead of mont-age. I felt really stupid when I found out that it’s not pronounced that way… Ugh. I’m so sleepy that I can’t think about anything to write…. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Whenever someone dies, it is always nice to put a montage of their life together. Rather than mourn, we should celebrate the life of someone who has passed, for they are off to a better place. What better way to remember and celebrate than with a nice picture montage full of pictures with family and friends?
what the hell is montage? a mountain relative or something? what? never heard. an animal?a pig? a mushroom? a kind of alien? i dont know. im not so sure if i care either.il read about it maybe. if i get the time.
The films rolled on, a silent montage of the war, replaying in my head. Images had flashed on that screen. They Ingrained themselves behind my eyes, made an imprint in my mind. I always have remembered those pictures, even though I was only little then. Now, those images are with me as I march out. The scenes of horror and honor, giving me strength and fear.
montage
i can montage my life
i can color it
in colors brighter than the sun
ill let my self color my world.
becuase its my world
it should be how i want it to be
no war.
just peace
tranquility.
happiness..
colorful!
The imaged flichered across the screen as a few stray tears escaped from the corners of her watery blue eyes. She hadn’t remembered how much fun they used to have together. And now each picture was like a slash at her heart. And now it hurt just to watch him. Her best friend whom had disappeared without any warning watsoever. How could he have done it to her? How?
Photos line the wall, calling out silently, gasping with their open arms. Eyes glance onward, gliding over the impressive montage, the montage so desperate for attention. No. Nothing will make you look there again. The cries are in vain. There is nothing there for you now.
The montage flowed through my head. Us sitting by the river laughing, dangling our feet in the water. Us walking down the street holding hands, going to the theatre. Us, laying in the grass, watching the stars come out.
A snapshot of memories. A frame dusty in the corner crevice of the attic. Tucked away from sight as the memories flood the dusty floor boards and I think of you. We were kids back then, but so photogenic as if sweeping the dirt out the door with our smiles.
It plays in my head like a movie. Flash backs and flash forwards indicating desires and sharing old memories. A montage of you and I play out. Picture by picture we fall into place. Personalities perfectly presented.
The pictures hung in front of her, all pieced together like a puzzle where the pieces are jammed into all the wrong holes. There were eyes, legs, fingers but none of the pictures of individual body parts seemed to go be where their respective body parts were in actuality. Kate felt as though she were looking at a new age version of Picasso, or perhaps Mr. Potato Head.
But there had to be some order to it, some meaning behind where the pictures lay. There had to be some reason that the fingers were sandwiched between an eye and an elbow.
What was it? She had to know. There had to be meaning behind it. But where? What did it mean?
Figures. Today’s word is montage. Nick and I broke up today. Everything, every-freaking-thing, reminds me of us. It’s like an endless montage to depressing music. Slip is repeating. How depressing is that?
There was a montage of glossy pages pasted onto the once grimy walls of the small bedroom. They were ripped viciously from old library magazines. Old photos and ads no one would ever remember seeing. They were beautiful and they were hers.
There was a montage playing in the background as I stabbed her repeatedly. She was a beautiful child, big chocolate brown eyes and hair. She was twirling around in a tutu, holding a bunny for the camera to see, blowing candles out on a birthday cake. I turned back to her lifeless corpse and the pool of blood around her head like a halo, seeing the change in her, the years on her face. It made me feel powerful. I smiled.
that’s a lot of things all together a group a collection a collage a syntehsis network something beautiful chaos crazy strange but full of mystery more than the sum of its parts i think because well it just is a montage a montage a slideshow in time delay its not static its all perspectives always changing the meaning is in the relations as much as the items themselves
It’s a montage, she says. Definition: it’s a clusterfluff of images she thinks is art. Who am I kidding, it IS art. It’s her own special brand. Just because I don’t exactly understand doesn’t mean it’s not art. I guess, I mean…maybe I’m jealous. I mean, it’s a freaking MONTAGE.
A montage of possible story ideas danced in front of my eyes, but I discarded each one almost as quickly as it passed by. A kid who wants many toys, a grandmother looking at old photographs, a private detective going through his notes – none of them felt remotely exciting enough to share. I have to remember not to try and write when I’m this exhausted. Oh well, as Miss. O’Hara said, “Tomorrow is another day.”
there is a montage of things going on in the world. montages of montages. if you are not in a montage, a montage is in you. dont be a montage. people don’t like montages. if you feel like you might be a montage. take a step back, look down, does it say montage? no? well at least you’ve got that going for you. take another step back. still alive?
“You know, I really hate montage scenes,” she said, examining the remains of the scene.
“Why’s that?”
“Well, you know, someone has to clean this up, don’t they?” she said, moving a paper crane, three weights, and half a tub of twinkies. “Where do you put all this stuff when the montage is done? I sure as hell don’t know.”
another montage – it is a fliping of pictures past a viewer like the images you see looking out of a car window, not that I have done that in so many years. Now I et to drive so I can avoid car sickness. that wasn’t always the case, but I’m a grown u p now and I can make the choices in my life.
Ding, dong, the witch is dead.
Left on the doorstep,
with one newspaper in hand.
Laughing at her!
All of the children laugh with me.
What a thing to say to them, too!
“My, my, my,” says she,
“What a pretty doggie! Yes!”
it’s a photography thing – a slide show of poniant memories to evoke feelings. if I had a montage now it would be all the sad times of me getting sick in the back of the car as my family pretends to be normal. Crazy, I can hear the soudn track. Glad this is anonymous!
Yesterday my therapist, of all people, flipped out on me. She was apparently having a bipolar episode where she was hyper and talking incessantly about this and that. And I sat there, in my supposed therapy session poised in a both wary and dumfounded state watching her blabber on about very personal things and clearly skirting the edge of a very nasty mental crash. She described a veritable montage of her life as it is. I left that session feeling empty, stunned by my first experience up close with someone suffering bipolar. I am now rather concerned for her welfare. Sometimes it takes the mentally unwell to help, nay, truly understand the mentally unwell.
there was a montage of pictures of my life before me. mostly happy. some sad. all bright. i guess life is like that once it’s over. bright and vivid with memories of yesterday.
Whats a montage? never heard of it. That would be an extraordinary name for a car or boat. A really high end car too. It would be red and would speed down the desert roads. It would symbolize the act of freedom. Running. Just running.
Her memories flashed before her, a montage of moments frozen in time, overlapping and blending together to create the person she saw returning her gaze in the mirror. So much time had passed, and yet she could only pinpoint a few key life events. She couldn’t help but wonder what moments truly mattered most: her day to day life, or the memories that stood out in time. As she turned to leave she saw the monotony of her life and knew that both played a key role in bringing her here as she stepped through the door frame never to return.
All those pictures. All those memories. Not that they’re important memories, or that this is nostalgic or fun or exciting. It’s just a collection of pictures from when I was seven, playing soccer; just another slideshow. Whatever. I watch it so many times, but no matter how many times I think it over, all that comes to my mind is Michael Scott saying “montaaaaage”. That’s just… that’s ridiculous.
What is black, white, and red all over?
Its pages were slashed. Its cover was torn and had a little red smiley face on it. It looked like blood.
Library children’s books…
montage sounds like montague. as in romeo montague. he seems like a good guy. or maybe he just found true love. something we all seem to be looking for. i wonder if we’ll find it, or if it’ll simply remain a storybook element we all look forward to burying our noses in.
montage of videos, pictures, images, words.
group of elements that are combined by a common theme
a group of elements that create a bigger element
a series of elements
take me up to montage, the scenes, how the scenery blurs and becomes the whomping willow, the day by the lake, the time I explored the city by myself and learned how to be myself
i see the movie in my mind like tech week watching myself go from the painfulness of cue-to-cue cue montage to make the time go faster so i’m standing at the curtain waiting for it to rise on my opening night MY opening night. montage to the time i’m spending. montage to the things i think i’m seeingin front of me but maybe, no. no not this time.
god damnit. a montage. the age of a mountain is what it means i believe. the montage of mount everest is a really large number. that bitch has been around for awhile.
We saw a movie together today and I basically saw a glimpse of what our near-future would look like. The film featured some notable actors and phrases, but you didn’t seem to pick up on the hilarity of most of the situations. Can I just assume that you’re not very bright, that you have yet to experience the wonderful culture of cinematography?
The montage of photos was chaotic. Created by slapping too many together any which way – or so it seemed at first. But as I looked closer, a story started to evolve. A story that suggested there was more to this montage than first appeared. One that showed careful consideration had gone into the photos. In fact, it looked as though the montage might well hold the answer to why my sister was murdered.
Create a montage. It’ll pass the time. That’s what it’s used for. To pass time in a short span of time. You can get a lot done. I guess if you look back on your life in the form of a montage, you can see all that you have accomplished.
what the hell is a montage? a montage of photos is a bunch of them right? a montage of events? well maybe that’s a lot of events.. all together. a montage of memories. now that’s something we all want. to be drowning in happy memories. there’s nothing better than reminiscing. i really don’t know what a montage is.
montage. I always pronounced it as Mont-a-je instead of mont-age. I felt really stupid when I found out that it’s not pronounced that way… Ugh. I’m so sleepy that I can’t think about anything to write…. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Whenever someone dies, it is always nice to put a montage of their life together. Rather than mourn, we should celebrate the life of someone who has passed, for they are off to a better place. What better way to remember and celebrate than with a nice picture montage full of pictures with family and friends?
what the hell is montage? a mountain relative or something? what? never heard. an animal?a pig? a mushroom? a kind of alien? i dont know. im not so sure if i care either.il read about it maybe. if i get the time.
The films rolled on, a silent montage of the war, replaying in my head. Images had flashed on that screen. They Ingrained themselves behind my eyes, made an imprint in my mind. I always have remembered those pictures, even though I was only little then. Now, those images are with me as I march out. The scenes of horror and honor, giving me strength and fear.
montage
i can montage my life
i can color it
in colors brighter than the sun
ill let my self color my world.
becuase its my world
it should be how i want it to be
no war.
just peace
tranquility.
happiness..
colorful!
The imaged flichered across the screen as a few stray tears escaped from the corners of her watery blue eyes. She hadn’t remembered how much fun they used to have together. And now each picture was like a slash at her heart. And now it hurt just to watch him. Her best friend whom had disappeared without any warning watsoever. How could he have done it to her? How?
Photos line the wall, calling out silently, gasping with their open arms. Eyes glance onward, gliding over the impressive montage, the montage so desperate for attention. No. Nothing will make you look there again. The cries are in vain. There is nothing there for you now.
The montage flowed through my head. Us sitting by the river laughing, dangling our feet in the water. Us walking down the street holding hands, going to the theatre. Us, laying in the grass, watching the stars come out.
A snapshot of memories. A frame dusty in the corner crevice of the attic. Tucked away from sight as the memories flood the dusty floor boards and I think of you. We were kids back then, but so photogenic as if sweeping the dirt out the door with our smiles.
It plays in my head like a movie. Flash backs and flash forwards indicating desires and sharing old memories. A montage of you and I play out. Picture by picture we fall into place. Personalities perfectly presented.
The pictures hung in front of her, all pieced together like a puzzle where the pieces are jammed into all the wrong holes. There were eyes, legs, fingers but none of the pictures of individual body parts seemed to go be where their respective body parts were in actuality. Kate felt as though she were looking at a new age version of Picasso, or perhaps Mr. Potato Head.
But there had to be some order to it, some meaning behind where the pictures lay. There had to be some reason that the fingers were sandwiched between an eye and an elbow.
What was it? She had to know. There had to be meaning behind it. But where? What did it mean?
Figures. Today’s word is montage. Nick and I broke up today. Everything, every-freaking-thing, reminds me of us. It’s like an endless montage to depressing music. Slip is repeating. How depressing is that?
There was a montage of glossy pages pasted onto the once grimy walls of the small bedroom. They were ripped viciously from old library magazines. Old photos and ads no one would ever remember seeing. They were beautiful and they were hers.
oh dear, i don’t know what a montage is! i hope the fact that english is my second language can condone such a predicament..
There was a montage playing in the background as I stabbed her repeatedly. She was a beautiful child, big chocolate brown eyes and hair. She was twirling around in a tutu, holding a bunny for the camera to see, blowing candles out on a birthday cake. I turned back to her lifeless corpse and the pool of blood around her head like a halo, seeing the change in her, the years on her face. It made me feel powerful. I smiled.
that’s a lot of things all together a group a collection a collage a syntehsis network something beautiful chaos crazy strange but full of mystery more than the sum of its parts i think because well it just is a montage a montage a slideshow in time delay its not static its all perspectives always changing the meaning is in the relations as much as the items themselves
It’s a montage, she says. Definition: it’s a clusterfluff of images she thinks is art. Who am I kidding, it IS art. It’s her own special brand. Just because I don’t exactly understand doesn’t mean it’s not art. I guess, I mean…maybe I’m jealous. I mean, it’s a freaking MONTAGE.
A montage of possible story ideas danced in front of my eyes, but I discarded each one almost as quickly as it passed by. A kid who wants many toys, a grandmother looking at old photographs, a private detective going through his notes – none of them felt remotely exciting enough to share. I have to remember not to try and write when I’m this exhausted. Oh well, as Miss. O’Hara said, “Tomorrow is another day.”
there is a montage of things going on in the world. montages of montages. if you are not in a montage, a montage is in you. dont be a montage. people don’t like montages. if you feel like you might be a montage. take a step back, look down, does it say montage? no? well at least you’ve got that going for you. take another step back. still alive?
“You know, I really hate montage scenes,” she said, examining the remains of the scene.
“Why’s that?”
“Well, you know, someone has to clean this up, don’t they?” she said, moving a paper crane, three weights, and half a tub of twinkies. “Where do you put all this stuff when the montage is done? I sure as hell don’t know.”
another montage – it is a fliping of pictures past a viewer like the images you see looking out of a car window, not that I have done that in so many years. Now I et to drive so I can avoid car sickness. that wasn’t always the case, but I’m a grown u p now and I can make the choices in my life.
Ding, dong, the witch is dead.
Left on the doorstep,
with one newspaper in hand.
Laughing at her!
All of the children laugh with me.
What a thing to say to them, too!
“My, my, my,” says she,
“What a pretty doggie! Yes!”
it’s a photography thing – a slide show of poniant memories to evoke feelings. if I had a montage now it would be all the sad times of me getting sick in the back of the car as my family pretends to be normal. Crazy, I can hear the soudn track. Glad this is anonymous!
Yesterday my therapist, of all people, flipped out on me. She was apparently having a bipolar episode where she was hyper and talking incessantly about this and that. And I sat there, in my supposed therapy session poised in a both wary and dumfounded state watching her blabber on about very personal things and clearly skirting the edge of a very nasty mental crash. She described a veritable montage of her life as it is. I left that session feeling empty, stunned by my first experience up close with someone suffering bipolar. I am now rather concerned for her welfare. Sometimes it takes the mentally unwell to help, nay, truly understand the mentally unwell.
Like a mountain, like a range, we climb up through life and observe what has transpired within it.
there was a montage of pictures of my life before me. mostly happy. some sad. all bright. i guess life is like that once it’s over. bright and vivid with memories of yesterday.
Whats a montage? never heard of it. That would be an extraordinary name for a car or boat. A really high end car too. It would be red and would speed down the desert roads. It would symbolize the act of freedom. Running. Just running.
Her memories flashed before her, a montage of moments frozen in time, overlapping and blending together to create the person she saw returning her gaze in the mirror. So much time had passed, and yet she could only pinpoint a few key life events. She couldn’t help but wonder what moments truly mattered most: her day to day life, or the memories that stood out in time. As she turned to leave she saw the monotony of her life and knew that both played a key role in bringing her here as she stepped through the door frame never to return.
All those pictures. All those memories. Not that they’re important memories, or that this is nostalgic or fun or exciting. It’s just a collection of pictures from when I was seven, playing soccer; just another slideshow. Whatever. I watch it so many times, but no matter how many times I think it over, all that comes to my mind is Michael Scott saying “montaaaaage”. That’s just… that’s ridiculous.
What is black, white, and red all over?
Its pages were slashed. Its cover was torn and had a little red smiley face on it. It looked like blood.
Library children’s books…
montage sounds like montague. as in romeo montague. he seems like a good guy. or maybe he just found true love. something we all seem to be looking for. i wonder if we’ll find it, or if it’ll simply remain a storybook element we all look forward to burying our noses in.
A montage of memories:
Of all the happy times we had together.
They’re just memories, now.
And I’m here, waiting.
Will you come back?
montage of videos, pictures, images, words.
group of elements that are combined by a common theme
a group of elements that create a bigger element
a series of elements