Christmass is a party time, so there is a little collection of my favourites remixes from this year.
I Hope you enjoy.
And in the name of Motel de Moka members we wish you a happy holidays.
Check my top albums here & my mixed albums here
Photo: Lars Tunbjörk
The winter is just around the corner, and the last entry which I had around here, was totally dedicated to summer.
Never too late for a welcome to an omnipresent autumn.
Regarding the playlist … I wasn’t very sure about including that Deerhunter song, although it is one of my favorites from the group. I got stuck in the idea that it disrupts the overall mood of the other songs … in the end, though, I wanted it to reach out and I dared to include it. Hope it doesn’t affect your enjoyment and you enjoy the rest of the selections.
We are not dead…maybe some members of the staff were kidnapped by aliens, but they are not dead.
Just having some kind of technical difficulties with life.
Ilustration: Gerhard Richter
Photo: Charles Bergquist
In summer we go to lie together beside the wather all of the things of the city mean half as much when we finally take them inside
The slow water lapping the sun on our skin and the shadows we cast echo fr ages dogs also happy lying like this huddled together
on the beach in and out of sleep with ancientness hovering over like a protecting hand. 
When we are sleeping, aeroplanes carry memories of the horrors we have given
our silent consent to into the night sky of our cities and leave them there to gather
like clouds and condense into our dreams before morning. 
There is no changing of the seasons, in the electric city and no real darkness.
The street is iluminated all night with orange light and the concrete is like a carpet.
We have dreamed the street as a room and it has become true
There is no indoors or outdoors anymore. 
Let’s get drop out the funky beats of the last playlist. Keep on the way to bed time, without losing pace.
Darling, you think it’s love, it’s just a midnight journey.
Best are the dales and rivers removed by force,
as from the next compartment throttles “Oh, stop it, Bernie,”
yet the rhythm of those paroxysms is exactly yours.
Hook to the meat! Brush to the red-brick dentures,
alias cigars, smokeless like a driven nail!
Here the works are fewer than monkey wrenches,
and the phones are whining, dwarfed by to-no-avail.
Bark, then, with joy at Clancy, Fitzgibbon, Miller.
Dogs and block letters care how misfortune spells.
Still, you can tell yourself in the john by the spat-at mirror,
slamming the flush and emerging with clean lapels.
Only the liquid furniture cradles the dwindling figure.
Man shouldn’t grow in size once he’s been portrayed.
Look: what’s been left behind is about as meager
as what remains ahead. Hence the horizon’s blade.
Josep Brodsky, Seaward.