It gets up before you do

Your eyes aren't even open and your hand is already patting the nightstand. The urge got up first. All night nicotine was leaving your body, and the morning reach runs without you. Now it wants a decision while you're half asleep. Flat on your back. In the exact spot where the old answer lives.

That lift you used to feel first thing? It was the cigarette paying back what it borrowed overnight. It drained you while you slept, then called the refund a boost. And bed is its home field. You'll lose arguments lying down that you'd win on your feet. Quit debating and get out of its stadium.

Say one line with your eyes still closed. Morning, Lord. Walk me out of this room. Then feet on the floor and out of the bedroom inside sixty seconds. Flip on every light between your bed and the kitchen. That's the whole move.

Click. Click. Click. The hallway goes bright, then the kitchen, and the room behind you suddenly looks small and dim. Half that pull was stuck to the pillow and the ceiling, and it doesn't follow you well into a lit room. It was counting on catching you flat in the dark. You're up, the lights are on, and it's still back there talking to the pillow.