there were stacks and stacks of newspapers piled up into the basement. they were old and yellow covered and being smothered in dust. I don’t know when i’d seen them last, i don’t know how long that was. but they had to go, so i dragged them slowly down the stairs. *thud*
I remember the days when I worked at the Ohio State library and had to go into the stacks to re-shelve books. Loved it. A place of quiet; a place to contemplate; a place to study; a place to just chill. Great memories!
I love to get lost in the stacks of the library. Always new books to discover! I’ll start leafing through a book I had never heard of and time stops, or perhaps speeds up! Whatever, when I emerge from the stacks an hour later it feels as if it has only been a minute or two.
in my book they did have to stand as what were known as STOOKS and stand for some weeks so as to dry out perfectly and then be skillfuly built into stacks
to withstand the elements until threshing time. Jus to write that so- dare i say it-therapeutic
Bodies smell like a deli from a hell. I enter the room clutching my pack. Loaded, fatal. I used to sleep through this, you know. Wasn’t really “there”. Not anymore. I had become to enjoy it. Nah. Not enjoy. I began to put myself into it. Really, into it.
Towering high, they press down on me…their collected wisdom-weight insulting me, because I do not know this and I do not know that. This library, this prison. I cannot escape so long as I do not contain their knowledge inside of me.
The books were organized according to subject, then by popularity within their stacks. The colors were all different, some a putrid yellow and others straightjacket-white. The titles brimmed with confidence: Metamorphosis, well known and endowed with prestige, crinkled above a scribbled KAFKA.
the stacks of barley were nothing short of monumental. they would have taken first prize for the most architectural specimens of symmetric structures composed of of nothing more or nothing less than sheaves that for some time had stood purposefully as STOOKS! would myou believe.
I miss books, and money. the two go hand in hand. If I have one, I have both. The trips through the different stores where dust and haze are the only occupants aside from a clerk and 1,500,000 individual stories makes me ache.
this one time… i remember i was in the hotel lobby with a bunch of my friends. we all stacked onto this one poor fellow at the bottom. compounded with the massive amounts of clothing that we were wearing – contributing to our marshmallow figures, we stacked on him with no concern for his safety. good times
one word that makes me feel like an impostor. The day you got back i felt nothing else mattered. i never imagined it would happen like this. it was over 15 years ago that we last spoke to each other. after all this time i have seen your face again.
Have you missed me? Do you think I’m a bad person? Do you hate me? How are you?
My name is Maria and I’m happy to see you again.
stacks and stacks of papers piled up. what do i do with them? i am so so very tried of it all. why is the work never-ending? why is everyone so demanding? cant i get a break? am i the only one alive??
stacks and stacks of papers filled my desk. what should i do with them? i am already so tired of it all. can’t i jst forgo it? i mean, nothing will happen right? who cares whether these posters get pinned up, i don’t. seriously, these posters don’t mean anything at all. we have been doing since forever and no one had payed attention to it. a poster flew down onto the ground…..i picked it up and looked at it
macks backs
I have a stack of paper here and of books there.
Stacks Stacks everywhere
Here and there
Towering over into my life
Holding me back,
Pulling me up
Spilling me over
I have a stack of paper here
and of books there.
Stacks stacks everywhere.
A stack of paper is the best thing on your desk. It keeps you going and reminds you that there is always more to be done. If the stack of paper or a stack of books were to be removed then a sense of ease would be felt within yourself as though you work is done. This is not good, for a sense of ease is a sense of failure and of giving up.
In the morning, my mother had already cooked up a nice stack of blueberry pancakes for breakfast. The aroma of the morning air mixed with cooking was just what I needed as a pick me up from the day before. With the reminses still scattered around the living room. i stacked up the books and sat down to be served.
Sorry, i don’t understand. What are you telling me? That’s a word, I’m not agreeing. Am i? Don’t you dare! I guess I will leave you. Wait ten years. Then come back, I’ll wait at the stacks!
It’s that game, Janga. The breathless anticipation which surrounds the table. Anxiety etched on all of our faces, ready to burst into a flood of unexpected laughter. Letting go is pleasant. Freedom is luxury.
Stacks of books are piled high around the store taunting me to sit down and read them all.
They are calling out to me in whispers of promising stories and streams of words strung together.
There were stacks of wood placed in the corner of the house, for the purpose of repair to the roof. A small section of the roof needed repair, but to our surprise, the termites had caused more destruction than we had known, and the whole roof had to be removed.
It’s stacks of fun to put on my purple dotted gumboots and go out in the rain, jumping over and into puddles like an exuberant six-year-old. There’s nothing quite like enjoying nature and marvelling at God’s creation without worrying what others will think of you.
he had stacks all over the place, stacks of books and papers, it was hard to see anything around them. his library was just as full. erik was afraid to take any more steps in case he toppled any of them. he could see now why charles couldnt come here any more. they really had to look at organizing something for him.
stacks of books a sheer heaven. the musty smell and a roving eye. it is not even possible to know where to begin. every page unfurled holds a mystery a delight an unknown life . the time is purely yoiu
stacks and stacks of newspapers lined the floor.
he hadn’t been through them in a while — just continually reordering them.
restacking them.
placing the new one on the top.
i think he only got newspapers because he liked the aesthetics of the stacks.
but who’s to blame him?
they do look rather vintage there. and vintage suits him.
It wasn’t long until the huge doors burst open. Tim cautiously exited the barn, taking note of everything around him.
The dilapidated old barn sat alone in a grassy meadow, a remnant of times gone by. This field was completely surrounded by what seemed to be an industrial zone. Factories as far as the eye could see supported hundreds of chimney stacks. Each one billowed with thick a smoke.
“Time to explore, I guess.” Tim whispered to himself.
Stacks of dishes piled high in the sink, taunting me. Of course it was inevitable that I finally had to rid of their dirtiness. If only the dirt that pile high in myself could be so easily cleaned. I can only ignore the stains and germs that cling onto me, grabbing at my every thought and way of word.
Stacks of books. The smell of old parchment. Drops of ink stained the rusty old tables of the vast library. Nostalgia was the feeling. Ghosts roamed what was and hoping it’s still.
Stacks of mail pile up and make stacks of more mail which pile up higher than the last. I ponder my problem with stacks of mail.
One day I will roll a stack of money so big I will grin ear to ear
I have stacks of books in my attic waiting to be read, waiting for me to discover. I wish had stacks of money lying around too.
there were stacks and stacks of newspapers piled up into the basement. they were old and yellow covered and being smothered in dust. I don’t know when i’d seen them last, i don’t know how long that was. but they had to go, so i dragged them slowly down the stairs. *thud*
Smoke stacks
Jokes and laughs
In a circle
passin’ round the pipe
playin’ at being natives
‘zzit worth the hype?
I remember the days when I worked at the Ohio State library and had to go into the stacks to re-shelve books. Loved it. A place of quiet; a place to contemplate; a place to study; a place to just chill. Great memories!
I love to get lost in the stacks of the library. Always new books to discover! I’ll start leafing through a book I had never heard of and time stops, or perhaps speeds up! Whatever, when I emerge from the stacks an hour later it feels as if it has only been a minute or two.
in my book they did have to stand as what were known as STOOKS and stand for some weeks so as to dry out perfectly and then be skillfuly built into stacks
to withstand the elements until threshing time. Jus to write that so- dare i say it-therapeutic
Bodies smell like a deli from a hell. I enter the room clutching my pack. Loaded, fatal. I used to sleep through this, you know. Wasn’t really “there”. Not anymore. I had become to enjoy it. Nah. Not enjoy. I began to put myself into it. Really, into it.
Towering high, they press down on me…their collected wisdom-weight insulting me, because I do not know this and I do not know that. This library, this prison. I cannot escape so long as I do not contain their knowledge inside of me.
The books were organized according to subject, then by popularity within their stacks. The colors were all different, some a putrid yellow and others straightjacket-white. The titles brimmed with confidence: Metamorphosis, well known and endowed with prestige, crinkled above a scribbled KAFKA.
the stacks of barley were nothing short of monumental. they would have taken first prize for the most architectural specimens of symmetric structures composed of of nothing more or nothing less than sheaves that for some time had stood purposefully as STOOKS! would myou believe.
I miss books, and money. the two go hand in hand. If I have one, I have both. The trips through the different stores where dust and haze are the only occupants aside from a clerk and 1,500,000 individual stories makes me ache.
I have stacks of energy and stacks of books.
Stacks and stacks and stacks and stacks of stacks of stuff and love and hugs and life.
this one time… i remember i was in the hotel lobby with a bunch of my friends. we all stacked onto this one poor fellow at the bottom. compounded with the massive amounts of clothing that we were wearing – contributing to our marshmallow figures, we stacked on him with no concern for his safety. good times
one word that makes me feel like an impostor. The day you got back i felt nothing else mattered. i never imagined it would happen like this. it was over 15 years ago that we last spoke to each other. after all this time i have seen your face again.
Have you missed me? Do you think I’m a bad person? Do you hate me? How are you?
My name is Maria and I’m happy to see you again.
stacks and stacks of papers piled up. what do i do with them? i am so so very tried of it all. why is the work never-ending? why is everyone so demanding? cant i get a break? am i the only one alive??
stacks and stacks of papers filled my desk. what should i do with them? i am already so tired of it all. can’t i jst forgo it? i mean, nothing will happen right? who cares whether these posters get pinned up, i don’t. seriously, these posters don’t mean anything at all. we have been doing since forever and no one had payed attention to it. a poster flew down onto the ground…..i picked it up and looked at it
macks backs
I have a stack of paper here and of books there.
Stacks Stacks everywhere
Here and there
Towering over into my life
Holding me back,
Pulling me up
Spilling me over
I have a stack of paper here
and of books there.
Stacks stacks everywhere.
A stack of paper is the best thing on your desk. It keeps you going and reminds you that there is always more to be done. If the stack of paper or a stack of books were to be removed then a sense of ease would be felt within yourself as though you work is done. This is not good, for a sense of ease is a sense of failure and of giving up.
In the morning, my mother had already cooked up a nice stack of blueberry pancakes for breakfast. The aroma of the morning air mixed with cooking was just what I needed as a pick me up from the day before. With the reminses still scattered around the living room. i stacked up the books and sat down to be served.
stacks are pile up of things. we have stacks of cards, books. stacks of cards make a house and can be easily broken. stacks are organized.
Sorry, i don’t understand. What are you telling me? That’s a word, I’m not agreeing. Am i? Don’t you dare! I guess I will leave you. Wait ten years. Then come back, I’ll wait at the stacks!
It’s that game, Janga. The breathless anticipation which surrounds the table. Anxiety etched on all of our faces, ready to burst into a flood of unexpected laughter. Letting go is pleasant. Freedom is luxury.
Stacks of books are piled high around the store taunting me to sit down and read them all.
They are calling out to me in whispers of promising stories and streams of words strung together.
There were stacks of wood placed in the corner of the house, for the purpose of repair to the roof. A small section of the roof needed repair, but to our surprise, the termites had caused more destruction than we had known, and the whole roof had to be removed.
It’s stacks of fun to put on my purple dotted gumboots and go out in the rain, jumping over and into puddles like an exuberant six-year-old. There’s nothing quite like enjoying nature and marvelling at God’s creation without worrying what others will think of you.
he had stacks all over the place, stacks of books and papers, it was hard to see anything around them. his library was just as full. erik was afraid to take any more steps in case he toppled any of them. he could see now why charles couldnt come here any more. they really had to look at organizing something for him.
stacks of hay horses eat hay. horses are my favourite animal.
stacks of books a sheer heaven. the musty smell and a roving eye. it is not even possible to know where to begin. every page unfurled holds a mystery a delight an unknown life . the time is purely yoiu
Stacks of empty envelopes,
Open wound. Heavy heart.
Stacks of empty envelopes.
stacks and stacks of newspapers lined the floor.
he hadn’t been through them in a while — just continually reordering them.
restacking them.
placing the new one on the top.
i think he only got newspapers because he liked the aesthetics of the stacks.
but who’s to blame him?
they do look rather vintage there. and vintage suits him.
It wasn’t long until the huge doors burst open. Tim cautiously exited the barn, taking note of everything around him.
The dilapidated old barn sat alone in a grassy meadow, a remnant of times gone by. This field was completely surrounded by what seemed to be an industrial zone. Factories as far as the eye could see supported hundreds of chimney stacks. Each one billowed with thick a smoke.
“Time to explore, I guess.” Tim whispered to himself.
Stacks of dishes piled high in the sink, taunting me. Of course it was inevitable that I finally had to rid of their dirtiness. If only the dirt that pile high in myself could be so easily cleaned. I can only ignore the stains and germs that cling onto me, grabbing at my every thought and way of word.
the day is long the night short and I, I sit by the window and look out at a world who’s day has turned into night and night a wide awake sleep.
Stacks on stacks on stacks. Maybachs on bachs on bachs. Jay -Z and Kayne watch the throne. Illuminati for that ass. Jericho Garcia bitch.
Stacks of books. The smell of old parchment. Drops of ink stained the rusty old tables of the vast library. Nostalgia was the feeling. Ghosts roamed what was and hoping it’s still.
i want alot of stacks of money to take care of self and loves in life.
She stacks her neurosis like all the old paperbacks in her daddy’s garage? :-/
errr..ok so this is my first time…gotta suck right :D
Stacks of mail pile up and make stacks of more mail which pile up higher than the last. I ponder my problem with stacks of mail.
One day I will roll a stack of money so big I will grin ear to ear
Thats alot of money, reminds me of the song racks on racks. I am a get money type of person. Money rules the world.
the stacks are great, her legs it moves closer, like cars on a heavy traffic, like light, does it want to be touched?