There are times when I drown in the politics of the world, things I have seen in my own life, in the very town and country I live in, as well as on my travels in the edge-lands of Northern Ireland, The Americas, Europe and India. There are things that are much worse than death. It is not true that words can never hurt us, human dignity can be destroyed with a single word, neighbour can be turned against neighbour, and war can shout its name in the guise of being for peace. In this whirling mess of emotion and division, the only thing that can restore us is that light within ourselves, this where art is at its most valuable. Not in argument or sentimentality, but in truth, in dreams, expression, and storytelling. Just as words can destroy us just as readily as the gun, so it is that a true line written down can unlock a life that has not dared to breathe for years. It can bring empathy and dignity in the simple sharing in black ink on paper, or when spoken aloud in a room in another country.