Court is closed until sunrise

The clock starts with a three. Everyone you'd call is asleep, and your mind has opened court with nobody there to argue the other side. The case sounds airtight. You're wiped out. You've earned one. Nobody would ever know. At this hour your mind is a brilliant lawyer with terrible judgment.

Skip the debate. Nobody wins one against a brain this short on sleep. Make a rule instead. Nothing about smoking gets decided between midnight and morning. The offer isn't refused. It's filed for review, once you're rested and the lights are on. The cigarette books its hearings for this hour for a reason. Its case falls apart in daylight.

Now call your witnesses. Switch on one lamp and name five things you can see, out loud, even in a whisper. The door. A chair. The ceiling. Your own two hands. Real things in a real, lit room pull your mind back out of the courtroom. Not one of those witnesses testifies for the cigarette.

Then hand the rest of the night to God. Keep watch over me till it's light. He's awake when nobody else is. You don't need to be clever tonight, or strong. You only need to adjourn. By breakfast, that airtight case will sound like something you'd laugh at. Court's closed till sunrise. Nothing got signed. You win this one.