. . . thinks more than he used to about dying? Who has night thoughts fended off by boyhood prayers? Who writes books in his sleep but nowhere else? Is it just me?

I DON’T THINK SO.

Night thoughts? Try Edward Young, with these four lines in blank but metered verse:

Procrastination is the thief of time,
Year after year it steals, till all are fled,
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
A child of his age — the 1840s — he counts on an eternity, notice.
Also: Am I the only red-blooded Ham-erican who, when he reads about major mistakes by leaders elected or otherwise, imagines himself in the same situation doing better?

I DON’T THINK THIS EITHER.

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