She was part of my every day – moving through the house like another sibling, her radiance constant, as if belonging to the light itself.
My son’s favourite Elsa costume is that sick as Eurovision-chic sparkling blue and white dress with the long snowflaked veil.
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.