I have more than once in my time woken up feeling like death. But nothing prepared me for the early morning last June when I came to consciousness feeling as if I were actually shackled to my own corpse. The whole cave of my chest and thorax seemed to have been hollowed out and then refilled with slow-drying cement. I could faintly hear myself breathe but could not manage to inflate my lungs. My heart was beating either much too much or much too little. Any movement, however slight, required forethought and planning.

When I was drinking, there were many times when I was out for the night and didn’t come back for a week.

One night in Cats, I missed my footing and nearly plunged more than 30ft. As if by magic, the stage manager’s hand appeared and winched me from certain death.

I’m convinced heartache almost killed me a few years ago.

My father, with whom I had a complex relationship: often, when I was young, his desire to protect me clashed with the stubbornness of my choices.

Earthly life is merely the infancy of our soul. What comes after physical death is, I imagine, like returning home.

The many nuns and priests who often work in the shadows, dedicating their lives to the service of others.

As a man who tried to respect everyone, treating them with a smile and with due regard, despite the limitations of being human.

A singer. I wanted to live off music ever since I was a child – a wish that came true when I was over 35 years old.

I fear the arrogance we are all at risk of, the pride that pushes us to put “I” in place of “God”. More prosaically, I fear physical pain because it risks stripping us of our dignity.