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 into an infinite twilight where stars sometimes fall like stray drops of water—and there you lie, fully clothed, as if at any moment an 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 that slide slowly past your bed in this room, isn’t just the mundane time-saving that mortals know, 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 clothed, warm, and untroubled.