“Slate grey mornings crawling onto the bed, the place where all is resolved. (Psalms 139:7-10) Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. Chuck them pints down marra, you live and learn. These are my riches; sorry I don’t want anything else from life. How many times do I have to do this just to get it right? I wonder how much I can say today, how far will this convo be allowed to go. All of this and I haven’t even got to the table yet. I feel as natural as rain in these walls; bodies on slate, legs frozen to the floor. A solemn promise, a vow to be a better person than you were, as we turn the knifeoneveryone but ourselves. Another question skipped as half a John Smiths is sunk. They run because the ones before ran, but never again. It’s this almost beautiful love and hate with who we are, what we are and where we are, I’d never wish it on a single person; but I wouldn’t change it for the world. This isn’t even about snooker, but the people around us, the space, the ones we look up to, the place that holds us together by a thread, the place that lets us heal splinter-like wounds that have taken years to rise to the surface and be understood. This is your life”

- Jim Brook, Slate Grey Mornings.

This Is Your Life, an exhibition by @jimlbrook And @mitchvowles