The chords echo through the old church, and the buzzing of the wooden beams makes my brain reverberate in tandem.
The road spilled out before me, the way forward hidden between twists and turns.
The six-minute masterpiece Motorcycle Emptiness truly was a rare opus in my incredibly mundane life.
Sadness is what I know best and it continues to seek me out relentlessly. Its loyalty never fails.
But I remember watching Sinéad on stage. I remember trying to absorb some of her strength, to physically inhale it across the crowd. That’s how you construct identity, surely?
There’s nothing the policewoman can do. My witness is the cloudless sky, and I know he’ll lie about it.
It was a time of riding on a barrel of a song and being saved by a fisherman called Friedrich Nietzsche and his novel Thus Spoke Zarathustra.
I was somehow out of breath as if my heart had expanded in sorrow and joy, crushing my lungs.
I knew that the only way to achieve full closure on this difficult chapter of my life was to go to London and retrace Rory’s own steps by walking his Lonely Mile. It would be a strange form of pilgrimage for me.
I sent you a goodbye message in the chat you’d set up because, unlike the song, we never really did talk on the telephone.