_____Matte

I'd like to meet:

s o m e o n e f r o m s o m e w h e r e

can't myfit so many mythings in myspace.
mythink i'll rentout a bigger myflat: myght you be mynterested check it myhere:
Friends of Enemies

Music:

Playlist this month:

Electrelane: No Shouts, No Calls

Bright Eyes: Cassadaga EP

King Khan and the Shrines: What Is?!

A Sunny Day In Glasgow: Scribble Mural Comic Journal

The Hold Steady: Live At Fingerprints

Do Make Say Think: You, You're A History In Rust

The National: Boxer

Battles: Mirrored

Bowerbirds: Hymns for a Dark Horse

Comaneci: Volcano

Movies:

Amarcord; Federico Fellini

Television:

Marquee Moon, S/T

Books:

Virginia Woolf: The Waves
"Now, through my own infirmity I recover what he was to me: my opposite. Being naturally truthful, he did not see the point of these exaggerations, and was borne on by a natural sense of the fitting, was indeed a great master of the art of living so that he seems to have lived long, and to have spread calm round him, indifference one might almost say, certainly to his own advancement, save that he had also great compassion. . . . My own infirmities oppress me. There is no longer him to oppose them."
Thomas Hardy: Jude The Obscure
“Why died I not from the womb? Why did I not give up the ghost when I came out of the belly? ... For now should I have lain still and been quiet. I should have slept: then had I been at rest!”John Fante: Wait Until Spring, Bandini
“His name was Arturo, but he hated it and wanted to be called John. His last name was Bandini, and he wanted it to be Jones. His mother and father were Italians, but he wanted to be American. His father was a bricklayer, but he wanted to be a pitcher for the Chicago Cubs.”Cesare Pavese: Il Mestiere Di Vivere
“Non ci si uccide per amore di una donna. Ci si uccide perché un amore, qualunque amore, ci rivela nella nostra nudità, miseria, infermità, nulla”Jack Kerouac: Big Sur
"... instead I've bounced drunk into his City Lights bookshop at the height of Saturday night business ... and 't'all ends up a roaring drunk in all the famous bars the bloody 'King of the Beatniks' is back in town buying drinks for everyone -- Two days of that, including Sunday the day Lorenzo is supposed to pick me up at my 'secret' skid row hotel (the Mars on 4th and Howard) but when he calls for me there's no answer, he has the clerk open the door and what does he see but me out on the floor among bottles, Ben Fagan stretched out partly beneath the bed, and Robert Browning the beatnik painter out on the bed, snoring ..."T.S. Eliot: The Waste Land
" The river's tent is broken; the last fingers of leaf
Clutch and sink into the wet bank.
The wind Crosses the brown land, unheard.
The nymphs are departed.
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
[...]
Trams and dusty trees.
Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew
Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees
Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.'
My feet are at Moorgate and my heart
Under my feet. After the event
He wept. He promised "a new start."
I made no comment. What should I resent?'
On Margate Sands.
I can connect
Nothing with nothing.
The broken fingernails of dirty hands.
My people humble people who expect
Nothing.
la la
To Carthage then I came
Burning burning burning burning
O Lord Thou pluckest me out
O Lord Thou pluckest burning"

Heroes:

Lapo Elkann