i remember most of my dreams. i don't want to remember exactly 21% of them. if you'd like to have those for me, i'd be back to my former glory.
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saluting the monsters. eating bits and slivers. biting the ass of life. le hockey! touch. sweat. my family. my camera and how good it can make YOU look (i have precious little to do with that one...it has the talent).
yeats. only so i could explain to him that true love shows itself in more mysterious ways than he could ever translate into verse. and that that wayward lady he loved so much was a slut and just wanted him for his firewood.the dog whisperer. i know...but he's amazing.anyone who can eventually write a book about grieving called "when the bowl is empty: a guide to pets who have lost an owner".
panda bear. no age. a place to bury strangers. gilberto gil e os mutantes. caetano veloso. and for whatever reason and to this very day, the first milli vanilli cassette.
holy netflix! hal hartley. jan svankmajer. the brothers quay. jiri barta. lots.
meh. it is slowly dying. sometimes it works, but more often than not, i let it sleep in. it allows me to flex my mario kart muscles.
haruki murakami. michael chabon. and books about beer.
with oil and vinegar, please.