My solution has been to scroll through my life, my thoughts, my fantasies, my memories, mis-memories, and the like until I have chanced upon events, people, or narratives that I can employ to divert my mind from the body in which it is encased. These mental exercises have to be interesting enough to hold my attention and see me through an intolerable itch in my inner ear or lower back; but they also have to be boring and predictable enough to serve as a reliable prelude and encouragement to sleep. It took me some time to identify this process as a workable alternative to insomnia and physical discomfort and it is by no means infallible. But I am occasionally astonished, when I reflect upon the matter, at how readily I seem to get through, night after night, week after week, month after month, what was once an almost insufferable nocturnal ordeal. I wake up in exactly the position, frame of mind, and state of suspended despair with which I went to bed—which in the circumstances might be thought a considerable achievement.

Thinking about the next day.

Not reading my bank statements thoroughly enough!

Other people’s suffering.

For the service I gave to the black folk.

In elementary school. I loved learning.

A Donny Hathaway song called Be Real Black For Me.

Pride, joy and freedom, but also hard, a struggle and work.

My mother, because she is vivacious, amazing, brilliant, giving, strong and powerful.

My mentally ill brother going to juvenile hall when he was 14. It led to his incarceration from 14 to almost 40.