Every day, Damien looked forward to the morning’s bus journey. For those thirty to thirty five minutes on the way to school, he would put his earphones in, turn on the music, and withdraw into another world.

The practice had started long before. As a youngster, his mum and aunt liked to take him shopping in the local town. That was where he discovered HMV, the music retailer. Black shelves of glistening, plastic objects, the neon purple of the dog and gramophone logo; all of it entranced him.

Soon he had a silver Sony Walkman, a small UFO shaped player that made a satisfying click noise when the catch was pulled. CDs followed. First there was Clocks by Coldplay, then Final Straw by Snow Patrol, next American Idiot by Green Day; on and on it went.

By the time he was sixteen he owned an iPod. Unable to put songs on it, he turned to his maths tutor’s boyfriend, Bob, - a bald headed fella who always stunk of chip oil - who packed it full of what he called, “my kind of music.” The artists and songs on the returned iPod blew Damien’s mind.

“Oh we’re half way there,

Oh-oh livin on a prayer!

That was Bon Jovi.

“I want to run, I want to hide,

I want to tear down the walls that hold me

inside”

Then there was U2.

“Now and then when I see her face

She takes me away to that special place,”

Finally, Guns n Roses.

When it came to music, Damien liked a good beat like the next person, but it was the lyrics that really drew him. They spoke to him of struggles, of passion, and efforts to escape. Mostly, they described things he was desperate to experience.

When Steve Tyler crooned, “Don’t want to close my eyes, I don’t wanna fall asleep, Cause I’d miss you baby, And I don’t wanna miss a thing,” Damien’s heart was filled with a yearning so deep that his heart ached.

The right song - that combination of music and lyrics - could produce elation, anger, sadness, desire, all of it. With time, the iPod became a very real library, one that Damien would open every morning. First searching within himself for a feeling, so that his choice would reflect that, or, desiring to feel something in particular, he would make his choice. Then, the music would sing to his soul.