At 74, with a modest laundry list of ailments and sorrowing memories, I think of killing myself no less than once a day. Probably I, too, lack the nerve and would get balled up with practicalities and let the moment elude me. Which is probably why most people fail to kill themselves. Not that they wouldn’t like to be dead. The small stuff just gets in their way. The bigger mystery, of course, is why more people choose to stay alive.
