Pills is for anyone who has stared at the ceiling at 3 a.m. and thought: if only there were a pill for this. One for patience. One for the blank page. One that hands you a PhD without the years. One for every answer the machines know before we do.

There isn’t. But here’s one. The hard part was the tone, because a joke wears off fast and a fake medicine with no joke is just unsettling. Pills had to stay dry and warm at once, and still look at home on a very expensive shelf.

There’s no shortcut, but the wish for one is real, and Pills lives in that gap. We pictured a luxury pharmacy for the creative who can’t sleep. The bottle sits on the nightstand next to a phone turned face down, and the only light in the room is the one you forgot to switch off.

The system speaks in two voices. The lockup is a solid P cut on a diagonal, so its bowl reads like a capsule in section, next to a neutral grotesque. The signature is a heavy script that could pass for a logotype from the 60s or 70s, and it runs huge and vertical down the side of every bottle. Both live in white on black.

Smoked, frosted glass, a low brushed-aluminium lid and loose capsules you can see through the wall, sharper where they touch the glass. The only print is white type, and each bottle makes one promise.

The Patience Pill is for slow walkers, slow wifi and slow people. The Creative Block Pill is for blank pages and blinking cursors. The Know-It-All Pill offers instant expertise without the tuition. The AI-Knowledge Pill is all of human knowledge, swallowable.

Black is the ground and all type is white. Colour lives inside the glass, in four capsules, one for each wish.

Pills keeps its voice down. It turns up in the city after everyone has gone home: lit panels in an empty underpass, a poster on a bare wall, a platform with nobody on it. Closer in, it’s a T-shirt and a keyring.