To sleep.

Imagine sleeping, not in an ordinary bed, but in a slowly rotating room, where the walls bow gently as your breath deepens and where the ceiling doesn’t end at the top but stretches out into an infinite twilight where stars sometimes fall like stray drops of water – and there you lie, fully clothed, as if at any moment some unknown command might summon you from your dreams to appear in an unfamiliar landscape where you must act without delay.

The advantage of sleeping with your clothes on, whisper the mirrors in this room that slowly slide past your bed, is not just the mundane time-saver known to mortals, but the preparedness for the unexpected, for the moment when a door opens onto a street that has never existed in your city, yet where you urgently need to be – and you step out, already dressed, warm and untroubled.

When the night is cold, and the chill creeps not only through the air but also through the carpet of memories beneath you, an extra layer of clothing can envelop you like soft armor against the unpredictable draft that sometimes blows from a crack in reality; your body stays warm, your heart beats calmly, and your dreams are free to wander unshuddering among the clouds and seas of light.

But there are also voices in this room, slow and warning, that say that tight, unbreathable clothes at night can act like vines, slowly but surely entangling you, causing you to wake up in a sweaty heat that seems otherworldly, or with skin that feels as if it has been scratched by grains of sand.

And so, between the revolving walls and sliding mirrors, the truth remains complicated yet simple: sleeping with your clothes on can be a blessing in the unexpected theatre of the night, provided you choose to wear fabrics that whisper softly instead of chafing, that breathe instead of suffocating, leaving you both armed and free for whatever dreams – or the reality that waits outside – may bring.