Inspiration can arrive in many forms. It can trundle through dreams, drift in with the purple sunrise that crawled over Port Talbot at 7 am this morning, or be found in the autumn leaves that gather on pavements catching cyclists out so they lurch and swear. It can be the dark call of Wind street, in the shrieking lurch of a drunken night out, or the lonely paddleboarder who inches across Swansea bay like a smudge on a perfect painting.
