After crying my way through most of the first act of Hamilton, I find myself thinking pretty hard about what I'm seeing, and my vision splits in two.
On the one hand, I'm watching the very entertaining story of the driven titular hero of the show, a hard-working, almost possessed polymath with, as he says, "a tolerance for pain," and a deep-seated awareness of his own mortality and his brief time on this earth.
On the other hand, I'm watching the product of a very driven mind, that is, the show itself, created by a man who seems to be working very hard to put out as much stuff as possible, in as many media as possible, and who, himself, may be very aware of his own mortality and the briefness of life, etc. etc.
During intermission I make my way to the souvenir counter and point to the glass cabinet: "One of the notebooks with the logo, please," I tell the cashier.
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