Peter B Godfrey

There is no barrier between what she thinks and what she says. Shouty, judgemental, frightened - almost immobilised by depression and rage. She carries a weight that others cannot see. Partly because she hides it, partly because they don’t want to look. She has turned her home into a

O vanishing days, death is in life, I know I know. Come here, Consoler, quiet my heart. Grant me, Silencer, respite from the pain. Cover all that’s too bright with your shadows. Let me rest in your silence –its cooling release. Give me relief from the light –and the

The line of words is a fibre optic, flexible as wire. It illuminates the path just before its fragile tip. The line of words fingers your own heart. It invades arteries and enters the heart on a flood of breath. The line of words waits, still, hushed, pointed, with longing.

It’s not dated It’s not lost in another time It’s a treasure trove of songwriting and meaning and feeling and poetry It’s about people communicating about love and life and injustice and passion and frustration and philosophical ambiguities It’s about visionaries, revolutionaries, and eccentrics, yes,

Tutorials and talking about books in university bars and cafes. The co-op bookshop, my altar and place of pilgrimage. Afternoons and nights at the pub, smokey clubs and incense in share houses. Thinking… it was all never going to end. Those books have gone now, with the many moves and

Too hard! It’s like a necklace made up of jewels of moments. You string them up and hope there will be more to come. You don’t have to win the lottery, just treasure moments that are simple but precious. I carved this gem out of an interview with