Daniel sent us this one — he's describing those nights during the Iran missile crisis where sirens kept pulling them out of bed, sometimes three or four times just for shelter runs, and then Ezra's wake-ups stacked on top of that. Some nights they were getting yanked awake five or six times. But here's the thing he noticed — if you added up all the hours between interruptions, they technically got seven or eight hours of sleep. And yet they both felt completely wrecked the next day, like total zombies. His question is, is that because they never completed a full sleep cycle? And he adds that specific feeling when you get woken from deep sleep in the early morning and you just never find your tempo for the rest of the day — is that the same thing?
Oh, this is such a good question. And it lands right at the intersection of two things that most people kind of know about sleep but don't really connect. Sleep cycles and sleep inertia. They're related but they're not the same thing, and what he's describing is actually both of them doing damage at once.
The math is lying to him. Eight hours of sleep, mathematically true, biologically false.
And the reason the math lies is that sleep is not a liquid you can pour into a container in any shape and get the same result. It's more like a scheduled maintenance routine. If you keep stopping the technician halfway through a procedure and making him start over, the machine never actually gets serviced.
I like that. So what's the procedure? What's the technician actually doing?
A full sleep cycle runs roughly ninety minutes — anywhere from eighty to a hundred and ten depending on the person and the time of night. And within each cycle you go through four stages. Stage one is that light transitional sleep where you're barely under, you can be woken by someone opening a door. Stage two is more stable, your body temperature drops, heart rate slows, and that's where you spend about half your total sleep time. Then stage three is slow-wave sleep, deep sleep, delta waves — that's the physically restorative stuff, tissue repair, growth hormone release, clearing metabolic waste from the brain. And then REM, rapid eye movement, where most dreaming happens and your brain is doing emotional processing and memory consolidation.
Each cycle you go through all four?
Yes, but the proportions change dramatically across the night. Early cycles are deep-sleep-heavy. Like, your first two cycles of the night are dominated by stage three slow-wave sleep. Later cycles, especially the ones in the early morning hours, are REM-heavy. So if you get woken up at two in the morning versus five in the morning, you're interrupting completely different biological processes.
Which means Daniel's night — sirens at random hours, baby wake-ups at random hours — he's probably getting fragments from every part of the cycle but completing none of them.
And here's the crucial thing that most people don't realize. Even if the total minutes add up, the brain does not treat fragmented sleep as equivalent to continuous sleep. There was a study published in the journal Sleep Medicine Reviews that looked at this directly — people who got eight hours of sleep but with forced awakenings every hour showed cognitive impairment equivalent to people who'd only slept four hours continuously. The architecture of sleep matters as much as the duration.
The architecture is the building, and he's got rubble.
The rubble problem is worse than just feeling tired. When you don't complete full cycles, you miss what's called sleep-dependent memory consolidation. During uninterrupted slow-wave sleep, your hippocampus replays the day's experiences and transfers important information to the neocortex for long-term storage. If you fragment that process, the transfer doesn't complete. You wake up with yesterday's data still sitting in the wrong folder.
Like a file transfer that keeps getting cancelled at eighty percent.
You have to restart from zero each time. That's exactly what happens. The brain doesn't resume a sleep cycle where it left off — when you fall back asleep after an interruption, you typically start again from stage one or stage two. You've lost the deep sleep you were in.
Even if he got woken at minute seventy of a ninety-minute cycle, he doesn't get to finish the last twenty minutes. He starts a whole new cycle from the top.
And if the night is chaotic enough — sirens, baby, siren, baby, siren — he might never reach deep sleep at all. You can technically sleep for eight hours and get zero minutes of stage three. That's a fully slept but completely un-restored brain.
Which explains the zombie feeling. But what about the second part of his question — that specific early-morning deep-sleep interruption where you feel like you've been hit by a truck and you never recover your rhythm for the rest of the day?
That's sleep inertia. And it's a distinct phenomenon from sleep-cycle disruption, though they often happen together. Sleep inertia is the grogginess and cognitive impairment you experience immediately after waking, and it's dramatically worse when you're woken from deep sleep. The formal term is "sleep-stage-dependent sleep inertia." If you wake from stage two or REM, the fog clears in maybe five to fifteen minutes. If you wake from stage three slow-wave sleep, the inertia can last two to four hours.
That's half a workday.
It's not just feeling sleepy. Reaction time, decision-making, working memory — all impaired to a degree comparable to being legally drunk. There's a meta-analysis from the Journal of Physiological Anthropology that found cognitive performance after awakening from deep sleep was degraded by roughly the same amount as a blood alcohol content of zero-point-zero-five to zero-point-zero-eight percent.
You're waking up drunk and expected to parent a baby and maybe run to a shelter.
What Daniel described — that feeling of never finding your tempo — that's the inertia never fully clearing because the sleep that preceded it was poor quality, and your circadian rhythm has been thrown off by the interruptions. Your body's internal clock is trying to run a program that the fragmented night didn't actually execute.
Let's talk about the circadian piece. Because it's not just the sleep cycles, right? There's a timing layer on top of this.
Yeah, this is where it gets even more interesting. Your circadian rhythm is this roughly twenty-four-hour oscillation governed by the suprachiasmatic nucleus in the hypothalamus. It regulates when you feel alert, when you feel sleepy, when your body temperature peaks, when melatonin rises. And it's remarkably precise when it's entrained properly. Light exposure is the primary zeitgeber — the time-giver — that keeps it aligned.
That's a great word.
Means time-giver. And the thing about fragmented sleep with random awakenings at different hours is that you're exposing yourself to light and activity at times your circadian system never anticipated. If you're up at three in the morning because of a siren, turning on lights, moving around, maybe checking your phone — you're sending a daylight signal to a brain that's in its deepest sleep phase. That confuses the master clock.
Once the master clock is confused, it's not just that night.
It cascades into the next day and often the day after. You get what's called circadian misalignment. Your body is trying to initiate sleep at the wrong times, initiate wakefulness at the wrong times. And the experience of feeling like a zombie — that's not just sleepiness. It's your internal biology saying "I don't know what time it is, so I don't know what state I'm supposed to be in.
Daniel's experience has three separate mechanisms all firing at once. He's got sleep cycle truncation — never finishing a full cycle. He's got sleep inertia from being yanked out of deep sleep. And he's got circadian disruption from light and activity at biologically wrong hours.
They amplify each other. Sleep inertia is worse when your circadian rhythm says you should still be asleep. Sleep cycle disruption is worse when your circadian timing keeps shifting because of irregular light exposure. It's a vicious spiral.
What actually happens in the brain during deep sleep that makes being pulled out of it so disorienting?
This is one of those things where the mechanism is genuinely fascinating. During slow-wave sleep, large populations of cortical neurons are firing in synchrony — these big, slow oscillations called delta waves, around zero-point-five to four hertz. Your brain is essentially in a state of widespread synchronized inactivity punctuated by brief bursts of firing. It's the most disconnected your cortex has been from external input all night. The thalamus is actively blocking sensory signals from reaching the cortex.
You're not just asleep. You're neurologically offline.
And when you're abruptly awakened from that state, different brain regions don't come back online at the same speed. The brainstem and basic arousal systems wake up fast — that's the "eyes open, heart racing" part. But the prefrontal cortex, which handles executive function, decision-making, impulse control — that can take twenty to thirty minutes just to reach baseline activity levels. Some studies using fMRI have shown that prefrontal activation after deep-sleep awakening is suppressed for up to an hour.
Which means you're physically awake but your brain's CEO is still in a meeting.
The meeting is in a different building. That's exactly right. Your emotional regulation centers, the amygdala, they're online quickly. But the prefrontal cortex that modulates them isn't. So you're not just cognitively slow — you're emotionally raw. Small frustrations feel enormous. That's why people woken from deep sleep often feel irritable or disoriented in a way that's qualitatively different from just being tired.
That explains something I've noticed. When I'm woken from what feels like deep sleep, I'm not just tired — I'm almost a different person for the first hour. Everything is wrong. The light is wrong. Sounds are too loud. Someone talking to me feels like an assault.
That's the thalamus opening the sensory gates all at once, and the cortex not being ready to filter or prioritize the input. Normally your brain does an enormous amount of sensory gating — it decides what's important and what's noise. After deep-sleep awakening, that gating mechanism is sluggish. Everything comes through at equal volume. It's overwhelming.
For Daniel and Hannah, they're getting woken by a siren, which is already a stress response trigger. Heart rate spikes, cortisol surges. Then they're moving to a shelter, which involves light, physical activity, possibly conversation. And then they're supposed to go back to sleep and pick up where they left off. But biologically, they've just hit the reset button on their entire nervous system.
The cortisol piece is especially important here. Normally, cortisol follows a diurnal pattern — it rises sharply in the early morning, the cortisol awakening response, which helps you feel alert and get going. Then it declines across the day. But stress-induced awakenings trigger cortisol release at the wrong time. If you get a cortisol spike at two in the morning from a siren, it's going to suppress melatonin production and make it much harder to fall back asleep. And if that happens multiple times in a night, your cortisol rhythm for the next day is completely dysregulated.
You're fighting your own endocrine system just to get back to baseline.
The baseline has moved. That's the thing about cumulative sleep fragmentation — each interruption doesn't just cost you the minutes you were awake. It costs you the time it takes to fall back asleep, plus the time it takes to re-enter deep sleep, plus the metabolic cost of the stress response, plus the circadian disruption. A ten-minute interruption can easily cost you forty-five minutes of restorative sleep when you add it all up.
Which means Daniel's math — adding up the hours between interruptions — is probably overcounting by a factor of two or three. He thinks he got eight hours, but in restorative terms he might have gotten three.
Those three are shallow. Stage one and stage two sleep are relatively easy to get. Stage three and REM are the ones that require sustained, uninterrupted time. If your night is fragmented into twenty pieces, you're going to get plenty of light sleep and almost none of the deep stuff.
There's something else in his prompt that I want to pull on. He mentions the missile crisis specifically — this is a situation where the awakenings aren't just random, they're life-threatening. Does the fear component change the sleep disruption equation?
And this is where the research on sleep in conflict zones is really revealing. When you're awakened by a threat — a siren, an explosion, an alarm that signals actual danger — your sympathetic nervous system doesn't just activate, it surges. You're not just awake, you're in a fight-or-flight state. Heart rate can jump from sixty to a hundred and twenty beats per minute in seconds. Blood pressure spikes. Adrenaline and noradrenaline flood your system.
That's a lot harder to come down from than just "the baby's crying.
The half-life of adrenaline in the bloodstream is about two to three minutes, but the downstream effects — the elevated heart rate, the heightened alertness, the muscle tension — can persist for twenty to thirty minutes or longer. And if you're trying to fall back asleep while your body is still in that state, you're fighting your own survival mechanisms.
The body thinks there's a predator. It doesn't care that you have a meeting in the morning.
Here's the cruel irony. Sleep deprivation itself makes your stress response more reactive. A study from UC Berkeley found that sleep-deprived individuals showed sixty percent greater amygdala reactivity to negative emotional stimuli compared to well-rested controls. So night one of the missile crisis, your stress response is bad. Night three, it's worse because you're already sleep-deprived from nights one and two. Night seven, you're a raw nerve.
That's the spiral. The thing that's disrupting your sleep makes you more vulnerable to the disruption.
And it compounds. You mentioned earlier the metabolic waste clearance that happens during deep sleep. The glymphatic system — it's this network of channels in the brain that opens up during slow-wave sleep and flushes out metabolic byproducts, including beta-amyloid and tau proteins. If you're not getting deep sleep night after night, that clearance doesn't happen.
Which is associated with neurodegeneration long-term, right?
Yes, and with impaired cognitive function short-term. The brain fog people describe after several nights of fragmented sleep — that's partly literal. Your brain is physically congested with metabolic debris it hasn't been able to clear.
Daniel and Hannah aren't just tired. Their brains are — I don't want to say dirty, but —
That's the term some researchers use. The brain hasn't had its nightly wash cycle.
That's a vivid image. Alright, let's talk about the practical side. If you're in a situation where fragmented sleep is unavoidable — missiles, a newborn, both — is there anything you can actually do to mitigate the damage? Or are you just doomed to be a zombie until the situation ends?
There are a few things that the research suggests can help, though I want to be clear that none of them are substitutes for actual uninterrupted sleep. The first is something called sleep banking — if you know you're entering a period of expected sleep disruption, getting extra sleep beforehand can build a kind of reserve. It doesn't prevent the effects entirely, but it can reduce the severity.
Before the crisis, if you had warning, you'd bank extra hours.
But that's often not possible. The missile crisis Daniel described — that started suddenly. So sleep banking isn't always an option. The second thing is strategic napping. A twenty-minute nap can partially restore alertness and cognitive function, even on a background of chronic sleep fragmentation. But the key is timing — if you nap too late in the day, you disrupt your circadian rhythm further and make that night's sleep even worse.
What about the early morning deep-sleep awakening specifically? The one where he says you never find your tempo. Is there anything you can do in that moment?
This is where understanding sleep inertia helps. If you've been woken from deep sleep, the worst thing you can do is stay in bed and try to will yourself back to alertness. Light exposure is actually one of the most effective countermeasures — bright light, ideally natural sunlight, as soon as possible. It signals to your suprachiasmatic nucleus that it's time to be awake and helps suppress any residual melatonin.
Don't lie there groaning. Get up, open the curtains, let the photons do their work.
And movement helps too. Even light physical activity accelerates the clearance of sleep inertia. There's a reason people instinctively stretch when they wake up — it increases sympathetic nervous system activity and helps transition the body into wakefulness. Doing that deliberately rather than passively can cut the inertia period significantly.
What about caffeine? That's the obvious one.
Caffeine works, but with a caveat. It blocks adenosine receptors — adenosine is the chemical that builds up during wakefulness and creates sleep pressure. But if you're already chronically sleep-deprived, your adenosine levels are through the roof, and caffeine can only block so much. You get diminishing returns. And if you consume caffeine too late in the day, you're sabotaging the next night's sleep. The half-life of caffeine is about five to six hours, but it varies enormously between individuals. Some people metabolize it in three hours, some in ten.
It's a tactical tool, not a strategic solution.
And in Daniel's situation — where he might need to be alert at unpredictable hours, including the middle of the night — caffeine use becomes really tricky. You don't want to be caffeinated at three in the morning when you're trying to fall back asleep after a siren.
There's something else I want to ask about. He mentions the baby wake-ups on top of the siren wake-ups. Is there something qualitatively different about being woken by a crying baby versus an alarm? Or is it all just "interruption is interruption" from the brain's perspective?
There's actually a meaningful difference, and it cuts both ways. On one hand, a baby's cry is evolutionarily designed to trigger parental arousal — it activates caregiving circuits and oxytocin pathways that a mechanical siren doesn't. That can make the awakening feel less jarring in some ways. On the other hand, the cognitive load after the awakening is completely different. A siren means you go to a shelter and wait. A baby means you have to solve a problem — feeding, soothing, changing — which requires executive function at a time when your prefrontal cortex is barely online.
The baby wake-up demands more from the very part of your brain that's least functional after being woken.
And parents develop this almost automatic competency at nighttime care, but the cognitive cost is still being paid. You're making decisions, reading cues, performing motor tasks — all while your brain is in a state of significant impairment. It's remarkable what parents can do in that state, but it doesn't mean the state isn't taking a toll.
It's like operating heavy machinery while drunk, except the heavy machinery is a tiny human who depends on you for everything.
Society just expects you to function the next day. That's the part that always gets me. The expectation that new parents — or people living through crises — should be able to perform normally after weeks or months of this.
There's no medical leave for "my sleep architecture has been reduced to rubble.
No, and there probably should be. The cognitive impairment from chronic sleep fragmentation is measurable and significant. Studies have shown that after two weeks of sleeping six hours a night — not even fragmented, just shortened — cognitive performance degrades to the level of someone who's been awake for twenty-four hours straight. And the participants in those studies didn't even realize how impaired they'd become. They subjectively felt fine.
That's the scary part. You lose the ability to perceive your own impairment.
It's one of the most robust findings in sleep research. Self-assessment of cognitive performance becomes completely unreliable under sleep deprivation. You think you're operating at ninety percent when you're actually at sixty. That's why sleep-deprived driving is so dangerous — people don't realize how badly they're compromised.
Daniel saying he felt like a zombie — the fact that he could still perceive the impairment might actually mean it hadn't gotten to the worst stage yet.
The moment you stop feeling like a zombie and think you're fine is when you should really be worried.
Let me circle back to something you mentioned earlier. The glymphatic system, the brain's wash cycle. Is that only active during deep sleep, or during any sleep?
It's predominantly active during slow-wave sleep, and the mechanism is fascinating. During deep sleep, the interstitial space between brain cells expands by about sixty percent. This creates channels that allow cerebrospinal fluid to flow through and flush out metabolic waste. It's like the brain's lymphatic system, hence "glymphatic" — glial cells plus lymphatic. And this expansion only happens significantly during slow-wave sleep. During wakefulness, the interstitial space is much tighter, and clearance is dramatically reduced.
If you're not getting deep sleep, you're not just missing out on rest. You're literally accumulating brain waste.
Some of that waste is the kind of stuff associated with Alzheimer's disease. Beta-amyloid plaques, hyperphosphorylated tau. Now, I want to be careful here — a few nights of fragmented sleep during a crisis is not going to give you Alzheimer's. This is a long-term accumulation issue. But it does mean that the brain fog after chronic sleep disruption has a real physical substrate. It's not just a feeling. There's something physically different about your brain.
That's both validating and terrifying.
Sleep science in a nutshell, really.
Let's pull this together for the specific scenario Daniel described. He's in Jerusalem, it's a missile crisis, sirens are going off multiple times a night. Ezra is also waking up. He's getting maybe five or six interruptions per night, but the clock math says he got seven or eight hours total. He feels destroyed the next day. What exactly has happened to his brain?
Multiple things simultaneously. First, he's almost certainly never completed a full ninety-minute sleep cycle. Every time a cycle approaches deep sleep or REM, an interruption resets it. So his total deep sleep might be close to zero minutes, even though his total sleep time looks adequate on paper. Second, the awakenings that do pull him from deep sleep are triggering severe sleep inertia — his prefrontal cortex is offline, his sensory gating is broken, and he's experiencing cognitive impairment comparable to intoxication. Third, the stress response from the sirens is flooding his system with cortisol and adrenaline at biologically inappropriate times, which is suppressing melatonin, making it harder to fall back asleep, and dysregulating his circadian rhythm for the following day. Fourth, his glymphatic system hasn't had a chance to clear metabolic waste, so his brain is physically congested. And fifth, this is cumulative — each night of fragmentation makes the next night's disruption more damaging because his stress response is more reactive and his sleep pressure is higher.
The math lied to him five different ways.
The math assumes sleep is fungible — that an hour is an hour is an hour. But sleep is structured. It's sequenced. It's biologically choreographed. And when you break the choreography, you don't have a dance anymore. You just have a bunch of people falling over on a stage.
That's the metaphor right there. Fragmented sleep is a dance that keeps getting stopped mid-movement, and you're supposed to start a new dance each time, and by the end of the night you've started seven dances and finished none of them.
The audience — which is the rest of your body — is wondering why the performance is so bad.
What about the early morning piece specifically? He says when he gets woken in the early hours from what feels like deep sleep, he can never find his tempo for the whole day. Is that a different mechanism from the general fragmentation problem?
It's a specific subset. In the early morning hours — say four to six a.— your sleep cycles are REM-dominant, but you do still have periods of deep sleep, especially if you're sleep-deprived and your body is trying to catch up. If you're woken from deep sleep during that window, you get the sleep inertia we talked about, but you also have an additional problem. Your circadian system is at its lowest point — the nadir of core body temperature and the peak of melatonin. Waking up at that biological low point means your entire system has to fight harder to achieve wakefulness. It's like trying to start a car in freezing weather versus on a warm afternoon.
Once you're up, the day has started. There's no going back to bed to finish the cycle.
And because your circadian rhythm has been disrupted, your normal daytime alertness peaks — the times when you'd naturally feel most awake — are blunted or shifted. You might get an afternoon crash that's much worse than usual. Your evening wind-down might not happen properly.
That feeling of never finding your tempo — it's not just a feeling. Your internal metronome is literally broken.
It takes about one full day of normal sleep to reset about two hours of circadian misalignment. So if your rhythm is shifted by four hours — which can easily happen after a week of chaotic nights — you're looking at two or three days of consistent, uninterrupted sleep to fully resynchronize.
Which you're not going to get if the missiles are still flying and the baby is still waking up.
You're in a state of chronic circadian debt on top of chronic sleep debt. And the two are related but distinct. Sleep debt is about the quantity and quality of sleep you've missed. Circadian debt is about the timing misalignment. You can theoretically pay off sleep debt with a few good nights. Circadian debt requires consistent light exposure at the right times, consistent meal timing, consistent activity patterns. It's a slower fix.
Is there any research on how long it takes to recover from — let's call it what it is — a sleep crisis? A period of weeks or months where your sleep is severely fragmented?
There's not as much research on this as you'd hope, partly because it's ethically difficult to study. You can't randomly assign people to live through a missile crisis. But we do have data from shift workers, from new parents, from people with sleep disorders like sleep apnea that cause chronic fragmentation. And the picture isn't great. Recovery is not linear, and it's often much slower than people expect.
There was a study that looked at medical residents after they finished their training — residents famously have horrific sleep during their residency years, years of chronic fragmentation. The researchers found that even six months after returning to normal sleep schedules, some cognitive deficits persisted. Not all of them, and they did improve, but the recovery timeline was measured in months, not days.
That's sobering.
And it underscores why the kind of experience Daniel described — which is not a one-time bad night but a sustained period of disruption — has effects that outlast the crisis itself. You don't just bounce back the first night you get eight uninterrupted hours. Your brain needs time to rebuild its architecture.
Rebuild the architecture. I like that. It's not just refilling a tank. It's reconstructing a building.
The building has to be reconstructed in the right order. The first few nights of recovery sleep, you typically get a rebound of deep sleep — your body prioritizes stage three because the physical restoration is most urgent. REM rebound comes later. It's like triage. The brain knows what it needs most and sequences the recovery.
Which means even the recovery is structured. It's not just "sleep more and you'll be fine." There's a biological choreography to healing too.
Sleep is the most structured thing your brain does. It's not a passive state. It's an active, highly organized process. And that's really the answer to Daniel's question. The math of "seven hours of sleep" assumes sleep is passive — that an hour of sleep is an hour of sleep. But it's not. It's a sequence of states that have to unfold in the right order, without interruption, for the benefits to accrue. Break the sequence, and the hours don't add up the way you think they do.
The short answer to his question — is it because they didn't have a full sleep cycle — is yes, but it's actually worse than that. They didn't have a full sleep cycle, they had sleep inertia stacking on top, their circadian rhythm was being pummeled, their stress hormones were doing gymnastics, and their brains never got cleaned.
All of that is happening simultaneously, and each piece makes the others worse.
Sleep is a Rube Goldberg machine and someone keeps kicking it.
That's honestly not a bad description.
One last thing. He mentions that sometimes you get woken up and you feel like you were in a deep sleep — that specific sensation of being pulled from somewhere far away. Is that actually a reliable indicator that you were in deep sleep? Can you tell?
It is actually fairly reliable. People are surprisingly good at guessing which sleep stage they were woken from, especially when it's deep sleep. The subjective experience of being woken from stage three is distinctive — grogginess, disorientation, a sense of having been somewhere else entirely, sometimes even a brief period of not knowing where you are or what time it is. That's the prefrontal cortex lag we talked about. When you wake from REM, you're more likely to remember dream content and feel relatively alert quickly. When you wake from stage two, it's usually unremarkable. But deep sleep awakenings feel like being pulled out of molasses.
Molasses with a side of existential confusion.
That confusion is neurologically real. There's a phenomenon called sleep drunkenness — the clinical term is confusional arousal — where someone woken from deep sleep exhibits disorientation, slurred speech, poor coordination. It's not pathological unless it's severe and frequent, but it exists on a spectrum, and most people have experienced a mild version of it.
When Daniel describes that feeling of being woken from the depths and never recovering his tempo, he's describing a genuine clinical phenomenon. It's not just being dramatic.
Not at all. It's one of the most well-documented phenomena in sleep science. And it's exacerbated by everything else going on — the stress, the cumulative sleep debt, the circadian disruption. He's not imagining it. His brain is struggling to boot up.
Now: Hilbert's daily fun fact.
Hilbert: In the late sixteen hundreds, the Polynesian community on the island of Nanumea in Tuvalu developed a unique system of hand signals for fishing coordination — a fully functional sign language used exclusively by spear fishermen working the reef at dawn. When European contact brought new fishing technologies in the seventeen hundreds, the practice died out within two generations. No written record of the gestures survives. The entire dialect exists now only as a single sentence in a ship captain's log describing, quote, "men on the water making curious motions with their hands, like a silent argument with the sea.
Silent argument with the sea. That's actually kind of beautiful.
It really is. And now it's just gone.
This has been My Weird Prompts. Thanks to our producer Hilbert Flumingtop. If you enjoyed this episode, leave us a review — it helps other people find the show. We'll be back soon.
