You will remember this when all else fades, this moment, here, together, by this well. There will be certain days, and certain nights, you’ll feel my presence near you, hear my voice. You’ll think you have imagined it and yet, inside you, you will catch an answering cry. On April evenings, when the rain has ceased, your heart will shake, you’ll weep for nothing, pine for what’s not there. For you, this life will never be enough, there will forever be an emptiness, where once the god was all in all in you.

If they give me the bloody prize, why can't they say nice things about me?

I don't own a Kindle, no. I love books, they are beautiful objects.

Where I went, no one could follow. Yet someone managed to hold my hand.

Perhaps all of life is no more than a long preparation for the leaving of it.

Art is amoral, whether we accept this or not; it does not take sides. The finest fictions are cold at heart.

The past beats inside me like a second heart.