Everything about morning is wrong.

The light in the sky is wrong–distorted in color, an evil haze from the wrong part of the sky, flooding all creation with a hideous luminescence unwholesome to the eye and corrosive to the senses. Every waking sensation is pain; the purr of a kitten, corrupted by morning, is as the assault of a thousand jackhammers, and even the very music of the spheres is a harsh cacophony of crows. The laughter of a child, impossible as it may seem, is made worse by a thousandfold in the morning.

The Greek philosopher cicero, speaking of mornings, wrote Neque porro quisquam est qui dolorem ipsum quia dolor sit amet, consectetur, adipisci velit, which means “There is no one who loves pain itself, who seeks after it and wants to have it, simply because it is pain.” The fact that there are people who embrace the morning, who leap from their beds every day happy and even eager for the corrupting,, agonizing assault upon their senses, demonstrates beyond any doubt how very, very, very wrong he was.

Morning twists and corrodes all it touches. Morning reduces the intellectually nimble to shambling zombies; it makes a lover’s caress into the touch of the scourge and sackcloth. There is nothing good that can come of it save afternoon; it is the time best reserved for snoring and firing squads. I advise everyone of decency and sense to have no truck with it.