Listen. If you’re reading this because you’re still awake, doomscrolling the news at 3:41 AM and eating fistfuls of shredded Cheddar straight out of the bag, you should know: You are witnessing the collapse of civilization through the prism of your bloodshot eyelids. Sleep? Sleep is a forgotten myth, a bedtime story we tell to wide-eyed children who still believe in democracy. Once, in the halcyon before-times, we had real sleep—REM cycles so deep you’d astral-project to ancient Sumeria to give Hammurabi a high five. But now? Now we’re stuck in a fevered pixelated haze, feeding our brains a steady diet of headline horror stories and algorithmic outrage. It’s not your fault. Big Blue Screens have conspired to keep you scrolling until your thumbs fuse into grotesque little goblin claws, suitable only for mashing refresh and retweet. Enter: the sleep coach. Yes, in the End Days, even resting requires a certified professional. You thought sleep was free and unfettered? No—sleep is work now, another burden to optimize. We used to have people whisper you lullabies. Now you get a 30-page onboarding document, two spreadsheets, and a calendar invite for your own pillow time. My sleep coach texts me at 1:12 AM to ask if I’ve considered journaling about my regrets. Why yes, I have, thank you, I regret everything post-2008. Children were the original customers—because only infants deserve mercy—but now grown-ups crave the dreamless void, too. I met a man who pays $200 an hour to be told that his problem is thinking too much about how he cannot stop thinking about sleep. My own sleep coach asked me what keeps me up at night, and I answered, "The inexorable march of time and the ghost of my ex-landlord." She nodded and handed me a weighted blanket—30 lbs. It crushed me into the mattress like an ancient fossil. For the first time in years, my mind went silent—probably because my lungs surrendered. Here’s the truth: you will never fix sleep. The world is burning and your mattress is possibly off-gassing volatile solvents directly into your subconscious. You can buy blackout curtains, pink noise machines, and essential oils harvested at midnight by monks, but you will still wake up at 4:47 AM and check headlines about eggs. Still, the new priesthood of Sleep is here to help. They offer mindset recalibrations, beverage curfews, and something called "sunset yoga breath affirmations." If you fail to transcend worry, you get extra homework and maybe, if you’re lucky, a grief nap. So what is the solution? Simple: perhaps we must accept that peace is gone; that rest is a commodity like lithium and free-range kale. It is dispensed by an elite cadre of pillow whisperers who sell serenity in 50-minute increments. The rest of us are left to stare at the ceiling, awash in the cool blue light of digital despair, counting the hours until dawn and the next recalibration meeting. Good night, and good luck. Or as the sleep consultant says, “You could really benefit from a pre-bedtime gratitude spreadsheet.”