Last week this man passed away. A synthesizer disco cowboy from Nigeria whom may or may not have studied cinematography in Russia.
In college, I found that when I listened to The Fantastic Man while walking through large crowds, things got all rosy. So give it a try for yourself why not.
The last three were compliments of the melon head. This one comes compliments of Aki Karuismaki.
Ain't that just the way it is
It certainly fades.
Until it comes around again.
All the rooms they smell like diesel, and you take on the dreams of the ones who've slept there.
There's nothing wrong with her a hundred dollars won't fix.
Bro, do you even read Bukowski?
Just keepin on the "songs I wake up to" theme
oh Nina K.
Continually surprised by the selection of songs I wake up to.
My subconscious is having a ball with out me.
and so I will be here
Downward spiral wit the bruh bruh
Because if a song ain't about America...
It damn sure better be about Jesus.
I don't post about literature on this site. I read quite a bit, but I don't feel qualified to broach the subject, nor do I usually feel a need to.
I'm taking exception today however, because this past weekend I finished Hanya Yanagihara's most recent work, A Little Life, and I would be remiss if I did not comment upon it.
To say the novel is "powerful" or "sadly beautiful" is both insulting and dull. While I cannot say it rivals Nabokov's linguistic flair - The Sympathizer can bark up that tree - it does take the thematic torch and throw it on a pyre.
I could yammer on for most of the day about how relateable it was. How alien it was. How I haven't read something so consuming and devastating in a long, long time. But I'll resist that urge and plainly say that it was tremendous.
That unobtainable good.
Hold the wheel
Where memories chase like hyenas and red storms block the view to a childhood front porch
Oh Cana-a-da-da fka. Viet Cong
For Masters of None.