August is a wicked month.

What matters is the imaginative truth.

... a country encapsulates our childhood and those lanes, byres, fields, flowers, insects, suns, moons and stars are forever reoccurring.

I'm a tuning fork, tense and twanging all the time.

My hand does the work and I dont have to think; in fact, were I to think, it would stop the flow. Its like a dam in the brain that bursts.

I'm an Irish Catholic and I have a long iceberg of guilt.

I know the mistake I am making. I see the exits in life.