There is no pattern the human mind can devise that does not exist already within the bounds of nature...Everything we do, see, write, notate, all are an echo of the deep seams of the universe. Music is the invisible world made visible through sound.

There's no black and no white, just shades of grey...But the small betrayals lead to bigger ones, morality is eroded.

We are who we are, be­cause of those we choose to love and be­cause of those who love us.

There’s only one difference between published and unpublished writers, and it is this -- the first group see their work in print on the shelves of Waterstone’s or Tesco or online at Amazon; the second group are yet to have physical evidence of the hours, weeks, years spent fashioning words into their patterns. You are already a writer.

The dead leave their shadows, an echo of the space within which once they lived. They haunt us, never fading or growing older as we do. The loss we grieve is not just their futures but our own.

What we leave behind in this life is the memory of who we were and what we did. An imprint, no more.

Too often I am jealous and my jealousy leads me to say things-things-that I regret.