“I read that good things take time – but one look at him, and I knew I could never love someone more.”

I’m scared of mediocrity, of scribing my soul on fading pages, each destined to the fate that met those before it – gently laid to rest in a growing pile of unwanted words.

Words hold little scope, for a love that stretches far beyond the limitations of language.

Spirits dance on a velvet night, the sky it’s deepest black. In restless sleep and twisted dreams, they find themselves alive.

Your arms around me – and for the first time in years, I feel like I am home.

And in the end when the money is gone – will you still stay it was worth it.

And when I imagine my home – above all else, I’ll always think of you.

In the end it’s all the same – the hearty fire or the damp earth. I pray I’m not alone.

I feel like I’m on fire, fighting for a moment on respite – I’m not placing bets.

The bond of friendship as tight as any lover – where shoulders carry shared burden, a devotion unmatched by any other.

What use is sleep, when reality is more beautiful than my dreams could ever muster?

You are a mirage – never mine to hold. A glimering promise so tempting to chase, eternally out of reach.

My throat burns with the words left unspoken, air hangs still and silence hides the words you long to hear – stay.

A full glass for an empty heart – the temporary bandage for a fatal would.

The smell of oak reminds me of summers spent sleeping under canvas, crackling fires and roasted coffee, the soft sound of guitar and voices in unison.

A collection of thoughts bundled together and bound in twine – more toxic than any chemical, my very own poison.

I sit by the sea wall, willing the waves to stay. Pulling away with gentle abandon – they avenge me for doing the same.

If we could read the secret history of our enemies we should find in each man’s life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.

I read so much stuff that black women say, especially about my relationship. ‘Oh, he left his black wife to go be with some exotic chick.’ First of all, my girl is black: she’s Jamaican.

I’ve done auditions where the casting director is taking the paper out of my hand in the middle of reading.

We have so many athletes do so many wonderful things for other people, and you never read about it.

As a coach, one thing that used to frustrate me was one player would make a bad decision, and that’s all you would read about in the papers all over the country.

To read too many books is harmful.

All the walks I want to take, all the books I want to read, and all the friends I want to see.

Any reading not of a vicious species must be a good substitute for the amusements too apt to fill up the leisure of the labouring classes.