There was something overhead. He wasn’t thinking. He was doing it. Despite his best effort to communicate his thoughts thoroughly, he was unable to utter a word. She became desperate. There was something else happening.
He wasn’t sure how he was going to make a go of it. The idea was sound, but the overhead was killing him. They were wrong. You need more than a better mouse trap. You need cheap labour and rent and promo.
Blue skies overhead, birds, wires. There are many things overhead. Enough to make one feel claustrophobic if it weren’t for the scale. The stars overhead are so very far away. Being part of that makes me feel important, not insignificant. How about you?
The clouds overhead grumbled and muttered amongst themselves as soon as they learnt they were to be replaced with cotton wool in little Billy’s imagination.
the trees sheltered the two lovers from the impending storm. overheard the birds covered their nesting eggs. with a sigh, the girl looked up wishing for her mom to be with her again.
The shelf began to tip and I scrambled to stop it from falling.There was a crash, followed by a scream. Not from me, from my mum: “WHAT WIS THAT!?”
Well it was the shelf, overhead. Falling on my head, not your’s woman…
The shelf began to tip and I scrambled to stop it from falling.There was a crash, followed by a scream. Not from me, from my mum: “WHAT WIS THAT!?”
Well it was the shelf, overhead. Falling on my head, not your’s woman..
What comes to mind when you think heels and airplanes? That song that plays on the radio on the time? How about the mile high club? Think of anything else, or is everything just going over your head? GET IT?!
she looked up into the starless sky and realized how happy the man standing next to her was making her. and i say ”making her’ because it implies an ongoing process and the sense of happiness keeps changing and accelerating.
So überdrüber, so unnötig kapuziert; was ziert dich, Schlangenauge? Mir schwebt der Kopf und ich trage ihn auf Händen, auf Füßen gehst du, rote A N N A, aber all dies, all das Rote gehört beiläufig in die kalte Glut…
The sky was bright overhead. It was a blinding white, the clouds so white it hurt to look up at them. A cool wind lifted the leaves every once in a while but it was quiet- in a comforting way.
stuffed above me in that pesky bin
underwear
small bottle of wine
shoes
shampoo
every thing i need to recover
relax
rebuild
waiting just to land
for my new life to begin
overhead projectors so out of date, gathering dust in the corners. overhead is the sky, the clouds, the birds, and expanses of stars and black and night. so many undiscoveries that we can only wonder about. all is overhead.
I lie in my bed, overhead a mobile of seagulls dips and dives into my dreams. I wish I was one of them, because from below I feel so tired of nighttime, of my endless dreams. To observe something special would be so much better than living it.
The concepts of life are so often over our heads. This idea we manifest that we are inherently flawed and sinful beings sickens me. There is a God overhead that loves us immensely, we are each special and perfect droplets of Love.
I see them there – do they see me? How can they not as they loom in the dimming sky. They are so powerful and mighty and yet I am so small and insignificant. You created them. And you Lord over them. and I thank you for them.
clouds overhead meant rain, maybe a sprinkle, maybe a full-blown storm. Maybe hail would come with it? maybe lightning? I love watching the drops hit the ground and moisturize the earth’s skin just as we humans do with lotion.
Overheadprojektoren waren damals eine feine Angelegenheit. Für die Lehrer. Sie legten ihr Folien auf. Selbstgemalte oder seltener bedruckte. Heimeliges Lichtviereck auf der Wand des Chemieraums. Ich konnte mich gut im Halbdunkel verstecken.
Overhead is a picture of you, fragmented by time and ennui and tainted with nostalgia. I still love you.
by Nathalie (spacedlaw-spacedlawyer) on 08.22.2010
Rushing over head sirens sounded, and i looked down at my feet. How funny it was that were my laces were untied and that I was more worried about tripping over and dying, then the bombs, overhead.
Overhead compartments are for the storing of luggage only! They are not for storing unwanted children, nagging wives, useless husbands, obnoxious teenagers, your mother-in law, your hateful, unloving father, or for smuggled alcohol, cigars, cigarettes, or drugs. Thank you and have a nice flight.
As the crowd pushed against me, tossing me like a merciless wave on rocky shores (and me with no shoes, the genius), beating me over with sweat, beer and sex drives with no where to go, I looked overhead, wishing, wishing that the vents overhead, the pipes, the metal, the steel enforcements, would come crashing down on all of them, all of us, and wash us away into oblivion, down the dark the sank alleyways of the city, forever forgotten and never found.
The overhead projector was dusty. When I flipped on the switch the display was yellowed. Adjusting the focus didn’t help. The hot dust floated throughout the room carrying an unpleasant odor. I turned off the switch and looked at the graffiti-ridden desks. I sighed and muttered to myself, “Welcome back to school.”
Overhead. Like that time when we were born into a cataclysm of violence, sex and death. And then, just when we actually understood it was pure sweet life we were already way Overhead.
One word is love. It is soooo hard to do sometimes. When my hubby gets cranky, I have such a hard time loving him. I want so to not have strive in my house.
Overhead the overdead , the corpse layed still on the motorway. The murderous pig stood behind him, blood dripping, his parents weeping knowing tonight they lost a son and gained another perspective on the son they used to love
The overhead lights come on. I’m frozen in place on stage, head bowed, eyes half-closed. Adrenaline pulses through me, but I’m not afraid. I channel it, use the emotion to create something beautiful. The audience waits, breath held. This is my time, my arena, my stage. I begin to dance.
White, pale, bleak. It was so hard to stare at this screen, it was nearly like staring into the very face of the sun – he couldn’t help but wonder if he would become blind after staring at it for a very long time. It was like sitting in a sun-scorched desert, only it was freezing in this classroom, and the floor turned his feet to hardened stone – a blinded statue.
He stared straight forward at the bleak, whiteness of that screen in which he was supposed to be thinking, then writing. This class was one of the most boring he had never encountered in his twelve years of schooling, and the blaring paleness of the overhead did not help him to think.
There was something overhead. He wasn’t thinking. He was doing it. Despite his best effort to communicate his thoughts thoroughly, he was unable to utter a word. She became desperate. There was something else happening.
Overhead the stars shine down brightly. Blinking every so often, illuminating the possibilities. Just stare and imagine.
above
He wasn’t sure how he was going to make a go of it. The idea was sound, but the overhead was killing him. They were wrong. You need more than a better mouse trap. You need cheap labour and rent and promo.
The clouds overhead grumbled and muttered amongst themselves as soon as they learnt little Billy’s imagination had replaced them with cotton wool.
Blue skies overhead, birds, wires. There are many things overhead. Enough to make one feel claustrophobic if it weren’t for the scale. The stars overhead are so very far away. Being part of that makes me feel important, not insignificant. How about you?
The clouds overhead grumbled and muttered amongst themselves as soon as they learnt they were to be replaced with cotton wool in little Billy’s imagination.
the trees sheltered the two lovers from the impending storm. overheard the birds covered their nesting eggs. with a sigh, the girl looked up wishing for her mom to be with her again.
The lightening overhead illuminated the scene below the window momentarily, the quick flash of metal hinting at the danger on it’s way
The shelf began to tip and I scrambled to stop it from falling.There was a crash, followed by a scream. Not from me, from my mum: “WHAT WIS THAT!?”
Well it was the shelf, overhead. Falling on my head, not your’s woman…
The shelf began to tip and I scrambled to stop it from falling.There was a crash, followed by a scream. Not from me, from my mum: “WHAT WIS THAT!?”
Well it was the shelf, overhead. Falling on my head, not your’s woman..
I heard about the overhead, making change hard. The company had years of dead weight and dead wood littering it.
Yet that was how they ended up in this mess, too big to fail.
garage. door.
The overhead door shut quickly upon the unsuspecting victim and before he knew it Nicholas met his match on the cold concrete floor or the garage
Our moon is overhead bringing us together, taunting us with what could never be, feeding us with empty feelings, keeping us stagnant.
It lays overhead; that obvious state of mind that is unachieved by the eyes of a lost wanderer.
What comes to mind when you think heels and airplanes? That song that plays on the radio on the time? How about the mile high club? Think of anything else, or is everything just going over your head? GET IT?!
she looked up into the starless sky and realized how happy the man standing next to her was making her. and i say ”making her’ because it implies an ongoing process and the sense of happiness keeps changing and accelerating.
So überdrüber, so unnötig kapuziert; was ziert dich, Schlangenauge? Mir schwebt der Kopf und ich trage ihn auf Händen, auf Füßen gehst du, rote A N N A, aber all dies, all das Rote gehört beiläufig in die kalte Glut…
The sky was bright overhead. It was a blinding white, the clouds so white it hurt to look up at them. A cool wind lifted the leaves every once in a while but it was quiet- in a comforting way.
stuffed above me in that pesky bin
underwear
small bottle of wine
shoes
shampoo
every thing i need to recover
relax
rebuild
waiting just to land
for my new life to begin
overhead projectors so out of date, gathering dust in the corners. overhead is the sky, the clouds, the birds, and expanses of stars and black and night. so many undiscoveries that we can only wonder about. all is overhead.
He overheard the words floating overhead, iridescent speech bubble popping gossip in his ears, reflective but filmy and distorted.
I lie in my bed, overhead a mobile of seagulls dips and dives into my dreams. I wish I was one of them, because from below I feel so tired of nighttime, of my endless dreams. To observe something special would be so much better than living it.
The concepts of life are so often over our heads. This idea we manifest that we are inherently flawed and sinful beings sickens me. There is a God overhead that loves us immensely, we are each special and perfect droplets of Love.
I see the lights overhead blinking in the distance, crackling sounds of electricity pulsing through the ancient wires.
I looked above me and saw the lights of the tunnel. Never-ending rows of illumination. Continuously providing their services to the world.
I see them there – do they see me? How can they not as they loom in the dimming sky. They are so powerful and mighty and yet I am so small and insignificant. You created them. And you Lord over them. and I thank you for them.
clouds overhead meant rain, maybe a sprinkle, maybe a full-blown storm. Maybe hail would come with it? maybe lightning? I love watching the drops hit the ground and moisturize the earth’s skin just as we humans do with lotion.
Overheadprojektoren waren damals eine feine Angelegenheit. Für die Lehrer. Sie legten ihr Folien auf. Selbstgemalte oder seltener bedruckte. Heimeliges Lichtviereck auf der Wand des Chemieraums. Ich konnte mich gut im Halbdunkel verstecken.
Overhead is a picture of you, fragmented by time and ennui and tainted with nostalgia. I still love you.
Rushing over head sirens sounded, and i looked down at my feet. How funny it was that were my laces were untied and that I was more worried about tripping over and dying, then the bombs, overhead.
Overhead compartments are for the storing of luggage only! They are not for storing unwanted children, nagging wives, useless husbands, obnoxious teenagers, your mother-in law, your hateful, unloving father, or for smuggled alcohol, cigars, cigarettes, or drugs. Thank you and have a nice flight.
As the crowd pushed against me, tossing me like a merciless wave on rocky shores (and me with no shoes, the genius), beating me over with sweat, beer and sex drives with no where to go, I looked overhead, wishing, wishing that the vents overhead, the pipes, the metal, the steel enforcements, would come crashing down on all of them, all of us, and wash us away into oblivion, down the dark the sank alleyways of the city, forever forgotten and never found.
The overhead projector was dusty. When I flipped on the switch the display was yellowed. Adjusting the focus didn’t help. The hot dust floated throughout the room carrying an unpleasant odor. I turned off the switch and looked at the graffiti-ridden desks. I sighed and muttered to myself, “Welcome back to school.”
Overhead. Like that time when we were born into a cataclysm of violence, sex and death. And then, just when we actually understood it was pure sweet life we were already way Overhead.
One word is love. It is soooo hard to do sometimes. When my hubby gets cranky, I have such a hard time loving him. I want so to not have strive in my house.
Overhead the overdead , the corpse layed still on the motorway. The murderous pig stood behind him, blood dripping, his parents weeping knowing tonight they lost a son and gained another perspective on the son they used to love
The overhead lights come on. I’m frozen in place on stage, head bowed, eyes half-closed. Adrenaline pulses through me, but I’m not afraid. I channel it, use the emotion to create something beautiful. The audience waits, breath held. This is my time, my arena, my stage. I begin to dance.
White, pale, bleak. It was so hard to stare at this screen, it was nearly like staring into the very face of the sun – he couldn’t help but wonder if he would become blind after staring at it for a very long time. It was like sitting in a sun-scorched desert, only it was freezing in this classroom, and the floor turned his feet to hardened stone – a blinded statue.
He stared straight forward at the bleak, whiteness of that screen in which he was supposed to be thinking, then writing. This class was one of the most boring he had never encountered in his twelve years of schooling, and the blaring paleness of the overhead did not help him to think.