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 carry their weight well; they break down and lose their magic. But wet newspapers… they whisper, give, and forge themselves around my body. To keep it that way, I have my ways.