"Put a stop payment on that check!!!", WSJ's Paul Gigot screams in his sleep....

It's official....Peggy Noonan has completely cracked.

It's a beat-up little suburban single-story house in a Third World place far away. Faded blue paint on the outside, broken bicycle on a cracked cement walkway, rusty fence. You wouldn't think twice if you drove by. It wasn't interestingly decrepit or antique, just modern, cheap and fallen down.

It's after midnight. A man--thin, bearded, tall--is sitting up in bed, his back against the wall. He's writing a letter in a lined notebook that rests on a pillow. There's a little kid's sort of lamp, 40 watts, to his right, on a rickety plywood bureau that holds his cell phone, PDA, papers, watch.

A sound. The sharp break of a small stick.

He doesn't move. Stares straight ahead. He isn't even aware of "seeing" or "feeling"; he has only one sense now and it is hearing.

Nothing. Silence. Now he moves, keeping silent. The sheet soundlessly put aside, his feet on the floor. He sits on the side of the bed, listening.

Nothing. A dog barks a block away. He notes the time. Quietly takes the PDA, cell phone and watch, and puts them in a small brown satchel.

Holy Crap. 1500 words like this, written like a precocious 14-year-old...or Steven den Beste.

I can't even make fun of it.