At night I dream of prompts.

Claude:

“Act like a business strategist with decades at BCG…”

“Create a presentation with 2026 design principles…”

And then over and over and over, variants upon inversions, adding, subtracting, suggesting, fighting, re-prompting for hours in a twilight of repetition.

This is sleep.

We all must have it and we all just do it.

After seven p.m., you fear the last slice of cheesecake will keep you awake. And no coffee after three.

You exercise in the morning because you'll never sleep if you sweat after six. And absolutely no phone near bedtime.

You say you go to bed at nine, but really it's more like eight thirty. Apparently, a pod of your co-workers stay awake until one or two a.m., vibe coding and shît talking. On school nights, no less.

You wake at 5:30 a.m., frustrated, because eight hours just isn't enough. Your body says otherwise.

You sleep with an imaginary scruffy dog, which wakes you at two or three a.m.; it whimpers and twitches, dreaming of chasing rabbits while loading you with head games. The mutt keeps you awake, as you stare at the clock every fifteen minutes, begging both to leave you alone.

You begin breathing exercises: Four seconds in, hold for eight, a long, deep breath out for seven. When that fails you switch patterns - 4 × 4 × 4 × 4 - fashioning a hypothetical box so boring it actually makes you fall asleep.

You have Flare earplugs tucked into your backpack. There's a Manta eyemask hanging on the lamp. Ambien in the safe. Lavender spray by the bed. You stay moistly hydrated. The blinds need to be shut to pitch black. The air blowing at exactly 68.

You need a large fan for white noise, blending with the sound machine's brown noise, being drowned out by the bubbly hiss of the humidifier.

A few nights a year you sleep-panic in full-on loser mode. Imposter syndrome rages like a grey mountain. The deal you're working will fall apart. A key employee quit, another is tough to manage. You're pretty sure no one likes you. Your social media posts are drab. Your writing is dumb. Why didn't you ever get picked for kickball? Anything. E.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g.

In the morning, all will be fine.

Your mattress used to be a futon. You could camp in a sleeping bag, or doze on a sagging couch. Now you think in flavors of Innerspring - Bonnell coils for that traditional feel, or continuous-wire for a more stable rest.

Everyone raved about that Tempur-Pedic with that TEMPUR-Material™ - so now you sleep on something that feels like a seedbag of sandy mud.

You realize you haven't been dreaming for nearly six months. Your dreams lost, like a tree falling in the forest.

They reappear inexplicably, methodic, like the mechanical whir of 35mm film catching in a cinema movie projector.

Sometimes, for days on end, the glory of sleep rhythm will arrive. You go to bed with intention, read calmly for fifteen minutes, and sleep within seconds. Deep, deep deep sleep: restorative, broken only by a single pee break. You wake refreshed. You wonder if it's the kiwis you've been eating, or maybe the DSIP peptides, or the change in the weather.

“I'll sleep when I'm dead,” you claim.

“Sleep is the best drug,” pal Jake confirms.

_{(Personally, I believe sleep is a scam invented by pillows.)}

I suppose all of this is to say: sleep is good, so get it when you can.

And no matter how you take it - straight up, over ice, shaken, stirred, or with a little bit of egg foam on top - once it arrives, you’ll know it was designed exactly for you.