Pajamas.

The rustle of paper sounds with every movement under my covers. My pajamas made of old newspapers wrap around me like a second skin. The letters, the faded headlines and the winding lines feel familiar. The news may be old, but it still has something to say. In the silence of the night, I have all the time to absorb it. It feels like I’m sliding between the lines, like every night is a chance to relive a forgotten story.

The paper is just damp enough. Dry newspapers don’t hold their weight well; they break down and lose their magic. But wet newspapers… they whisper, they give, they mold themselves around my body. To keep it that way, I have my ways. Next to my bed is a fine mist spray, filled with water and a hint of chamomile. Just before I crawl under the covers, I spray a light mist over the sleeves and trouser legs. The smell of wet paper, infused with a hint of herbs, calms me. The ink glistens just enough for me to see that it’s working.

On summer nights, when the heat suffocates even the silence, I drape a wet cotton blanket loosely over myself. Not dripping, but just damp enough to keep the newspaper fabric alive. It keeps the texts like a shadow on my skin, without drowning me in my own invention.

Sometimes there’s a small basin of water next to the bed. It may not be the most elegant method, but if I dip the ends of my sleeves and pant legs in it, the pajamas stay saturated all night. I have to restrain myself from moving too much—one wrong swing and I’m in the middle of a puddle. But if I get it right, it’s as if the stories suck themselves up from the corners of the basin and embrace me.

On rainy nights I leave the window ajar. The fresh, damp air fills the room and flows over the bed, like a breath of the night itself. The paper groans softly in the airflow and the sentences seem to come to life, as if they are trying to read themselves. This is perhaps my favorite way. As if the world itself helps to keep the stories alive.

Under my covers I close my eyes. The paper rests against my skin, wet and heavier now, but never too much. The words slide over me like dreams in printer's ink. Time doesn't work against the news, not here. I breathe in slowly and listen to the rustling. I have a whole night to understand it.