My mom used to say that trying to wake me up in the morning was like entering a dragon’s lair. As I got older she would send in my dog, that noble dragon-slaying beagle, who would lay his head on my bed, whine, and occasionally lick any body part that stuck out from under the sheets.
In my college years I would revel in that 3am energy surge. “Fourth wind!” I would shout as I pulled an all-nighter, madly typing that essay with a Red Bull bubbling next to my computer. I was convinced that my best, most creative work happened just before dawn.