Above me the clouds swirled in the azure sky, the sun beaming down into my squinting eyes, as though in mockery of my utter stupidity. Below my heaving body, the unruly grass, damp with morning dew, cooled my now feverish skin. So I thought, this is death. This is the sweet release so often painted in the poetry of great artists. “Do die is to sleep, to sleep perchance to dream” that was what Shak...