#FireHorsesQuotes 87: “For years all that I could recall of Millmoor was the night: the claustrophobia of the crowded town, the agoraphobia of the hilltop fields, the desolation of the browning moorland and the dereliction of the redundant factories where my sometimes father sometimes worked. The wind on my exposed skin, so cold it dried up my eyeballs, freezing snot to my face so it hung down like ambergris.
Only from this monstrous distance can I recall vividly the sun in the trees and the way the birds swooped over the valley, the sound of snowmelt water shining stones, the pretty village that Stone Nest had swallowed whole, the friendliness of the old gimmers with their harder lives and longer memories, their ancient moralities and tartan-fleeced boots.”
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