I hate sleep.
I never feel good about sleeping. I can never shake the feeling that, if I didn’t have to capitulate to this particular weakness of my vile body, there is so much I could be getting done. But I am — inescapably, habitually — exhausted, and so, I am told, must therefore sleep. This seems a rotten way to run a railroad, and so I spit upon it. I spit on sleep.
Of course, I will still do it: I have to. But I sure as Frith don’t have to like it.