Two Arts degrees does not a life make.
Men walk through tragedy, quietly, calm and precise on the outside, tearing themselves to shreds inside.
He looks a hell of a lot like me, only a fair bit older.
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 work hard in the orchard, not for the money anymore, but for something I can't explain. Something worth more than money.