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.

After the war I was going to make up for lost time. But the time I spent away, it's still lost. No matter what I do, it stays lost.

and I'm thinking as our bodies meet that I'll remember this forever, and i just hope it's for all the right reasons.

Two Arts degrees does not a life make.

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

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