Night fell clean and cold in Dublin, and wind moaned beyond my room as if a million pipes played the air.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
When I first came out with my fans and the wind hit me, I almost took off.
All through the night, like the tumult of a river when it races between the cliffs of a canyon, in my sleep I could hear the steady roar of the passing army.
A great wind is blowing, and that gives you either imagination or a headache.
It was the noise Of ancient trees falling while all was still Before the storm, in the long interval Between the gathering clouds and that light breeze Which Germans call the Wind's bride.
I came like Water, and like Wind I go.
I was brought up in the countryside in Ireland and would go bonkers if I couldn't escape the city. I like to wake and hear birds tweeting, not the low drone of traffic.
My Dublin wasn't the Dublin of sing-songs, traditional music, sense of history and place and community.
The sky was falling down on me and I spent most of the time drunk. It was the only way I could handle it.
I am never at my best in the early morning, especially a cold morning in the Yorkshire spring with a piercing March wind sweeping down from the fells, finding its way inside my clothing, nipping at my nose and ears.
I was asleep, in the upstairs bedroom, in the rear of the house. There was this tremendous crash, there was a terrible wind force hitting my body, and then I blanked out.