The rest of that night is a feverish blur. I asked to talk to my mom; had a slice of chocolate cake; prayed. I remember waking up every few hours and seeing my mother praying by my bedside, then every nurse in the hospital, and then every cleaning staff member who loved my father for his kindness toward them throughout the years — all praying for me.

I would obviously be in a good place chemically, the synapses would be content. I would play with my kids. I don’t think I would have time to watch anything by Ingmar Bergman. Bergman would suddenly feel like not that good a director if I only had a few hours.

If the rain held off, I’d walk down to Lough Ine, stopping at the shrine to say a few words to Herself and rile a few fairies. I’d take a sloop out, do a few perimeters and have a chat with Labhrai Loinsigh. I’d maybe walk up furry mountain and take in the view.

I would still be at home. I wouldn’t want to travel anywhere because the roads would be chaos.

My wife. She is the most beautiful person I know in every way and has an endless energy for other people that a vinegary old misanthrope like myself can only marvel at.

Right now. It's a beautiful thing to find yourself "the wrong side of 40" and more in love with life than ever. I never tell people this publicly as they wrongly assume the only valid creative state is that of the cliche of the tubercular, tortured artist coughing up blood in his garret.