With all respects to heaven, I like it here.
The Irish are great for their tunes, but all their lovesongs are sad and their warsongs happy.
How inevitable it is; we step into an ordinary moment and never come out again.
There's a part of me that thinks perhaps we go on existing in a place even after we've left it.
The luxury of age was the giving up of vanity.
There is always room for at least two truths.