I work hard in the orchard, not for the money anymore, but for something I can't explain. Something worth more than money.

He looks a hell of a lot like me, only a fair bit older.

I work hard in the orchard, not for the money anymore, but for something I can't explain. Something worth more than money.

Men walk through tragedy, quietly, calm and precise on the outside, tearing themselves to shreds inside.

I’m alone with the ghost of the swamp, somewhere near the weeping willows.

She taught me what's important, and what isn't. And I've never forgotten. And that's what mothers do, I say.

I'm drinking away the exam results that don't take me anywhere.