“I can tell it’s much later without looking at my phone. Those of us prone to sleeplessness can always tell. We can read the great curve of the night as it arcs toward day. We’ve lived every minute of every dark hour in excruciating detail. Back when substances rocketed me into the dawn, the small hours—three, four, five in the morning—were purely of a piece with the night. As long as it was still dark, it was still the night before. But now these hours belong to some other slippery, enigmatic zone, not quite night and not quite day. It’s proven to be when regret hits me the hardest, and when I know with dismal certainty that it’s just a matter of time before I fuck up all over again. I envy normal people—people like Matt, lightly snoring at my side—who skip blissfully past these hours every night as if they do not exist.”