Whenever I was having trouble sleeping as a child, my father would sit on the edge of my bed and recite the following poem:
“I’ll tell you a story
About David Corey,
Now my story’s begun…
I’ll tell you another
About his brother
Now my story’s done.”
After Dad left the bedroom, I would usually drift off to sleep quickly, my mind anesthetized inside a soft, protective cloud of circular logic.
