So many things. Every headline in the newspaper, global warming … the list goes on.

Anything and everything.

Thinking about life.

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.

That’s easy. I’ve consistently punched above my weight.

I have a mild fear of not being appreciative enough for the luck that has come my way. That’s about it.

A friend named Paul Hill [one of the Guildford Four] spent 15 years in prison doing time for crimes he did not commit. We communicate most days. I admire the hell out of him.

Like Celtic hitting the back of the net in the 90th minute of a Champions League football match.

I travelled all the way to the Arctic Circle to see the aurora borealis, then fell asleep and missed it.

In the Beatles.