The Sorceress, the Curse, and the Politics of Sleep
— or, Editorial Regimes and Ontological Magic

Let us imagine her grown.
Sleeping Beauty represents a woman marked by a sovereign decision that reorganizes her time, suspends her agency, and interrupts the course of her becoming. Her sleep expresses a command, not a refuge.

The figure of the witch exceeds enchantment — she institutes. Her spell has administrative contours and enacts a new temporal regime. Within it, the woman remains still, unchanged, suspended — a body shaped by prophecy.

This narrative speaks of magic, but also of power.
The enchanted sleep echoes the concept of necropolitical time as described by Achille Mbembe (2003): a form of temporal management that pushes bodies toward inactivity, exclusion, or prolonged suspension. In this logic, sleep takes on the contours of captivity disguised as care. The sorceress imposes exhaustion as norm, crafting a scenario of forced suspension rather than offering rest.

Her spell reveals itself as a diagram of the sensory collapse described by Franco “Bifo” Berardi (2019): a state in which the intensity of semiotic and affective stimuli saturates the capacity to feel, perceive, and act. According to Berardi, the problem does not lie in a lack of energy, but in the erosion of sensitivity (p. 14). In this context, to fall asleep becomes a strategy for managing exhausted bodies, already on the margins of productivity.

And yet, this sleep carries latent potential. It does not equate to death, but to a fertile suspension. It postpones action but retains the power of germination. It immobilizes, yet it also generates. Within it, time curves, ferments, and thickens.

It is in this territory that magic returns — as the capacity to summon alternative worlds, as Federico Campagna (2018) suggests. In contrast to the metaphysics of Technique — which demands legibility, operation, and definition — Magic proposes a different mode of inhabiting the world, where meaning is evoked rather than imposed (p. 98). In this universe, to publish is to cast spells: to compose symbolic realities that escape capture.

The magic envisioned by Campagna is ontological in nature: it does not project illusions but alters what is understood as real. In this register, sleep acquires a dangerous dimension — not as escape, but as fertile ground. A liminal space where enchanted stillness becomes rebellious gestation.

What if Sleeping Beauty, rather than waiting to be saved, were absorbing the curse, transforming it inwardly, preparing a world not yet equipped with language to name itself? What if her silence were functioning as alchemy — a political practice of inhabiting the spell until its logic dissolves?

In this scenario, publishing takes the form of a ritual interruption. It is not a matter of continuous production, but of suspension with intent.

The sorceress emerges as a figure of ontological containment — the entity who stipulates what may exist and when. Instead of envy, she manifests sovereignty. To confront her does not mean rejecting magic, but reappropriating it as a tool of resistance against the script she imposes. The dreamer awakens not by the prince’s intervention, but because the spell has matured, transmuting into another form of magic.

Perhaps the real challenge in thinking the futures of publishing lies less in the continual production of content, and more in learning to inhabit spaces of suspension — to live fully within enchanted time and, from its depths, emerge toward a reality shaped by another grammar.

Sleeping Is Also a Form of Communication
— or, What Sleeping Beauty Knows

Sleeping is a form of communication — diffuse, ambient, non-verbal. A language without subject or intent. A publication with no editors, no readers, and no desire to be understood. When Sleeping Beauty closed her eyes, she transformed. She became unreadable. Her body, resting for a hundred years, held a different kind of knowledge: suspended time, a deferred message. Her sleep did not erase — it transmitted, slowly and silently — a resistance across the centuries.

In a world of constant attention, sleep remains one of the last commons outside market logic. Crary (2013) reminds us that “sleep is an uncompromising interruption of the theft of time from us by capitalism” (p. 10). The time of advanced capitalism seeks to eliminate intervals: rest, dreams, pauses — moments without production, consumption, or response. In this context, sleep acquires a political dimension. A gesture of refusal. A powerful way to interrupt the cycle of visibility and productivity. By disconnecting, the body sends a clear message: it refuses to remain available.

This gesture does not end communication — it transforms it. Jean-Luc Nancy (2009) describes sleep as a form of surrender: “To sleep is to abandon oneself, not to something else, but to nothing — to the nothingness that is sleep itself” (p. 14). Sleep brings bodies closer together; it dissolves the boundaries between pleasure and pain, self and other, signal and noise. What emerges is a shared silence — an infra-language where common breathing replaces speech.

Tricia Hersey (2022), founder of The Nap Ministry, sees sleep as a return to life. A spiritual and political act, especially for those historically denied rest. She describes rest as “a portal to our truest self” (p. xviii), a practice of liberation rooted in ancestral knowledge. Sleep, in this sense, is a reclaiming of time — not just for restoration, but for reimagining. “Rest is resistance. Rest is a meticulous and loving practice” (p. xxi).

The rhythm of sleep stands in tension with the logic of cultural production. While publishing obeys deadlines, metrics, and speed, sleep moves through circadian, cosmic, and unconscious rhythms. It forgets, repeats, delays. What would an editorial practice aligned with the time of sleep look like? Circular, opaque, affective? What if we were guided by what remains unsaid, by the pauses, by what is withheld? Perhaps the princess’s century of sleep is more than waiting — perhaps it is a work of slow insurrection.

Sara Ahmed (2021) suggests that complaint and exhaustion communicate dissonantly. “To be heard as someone who complains is to be heard as negative,” she writes, “and to be negative becomes grounds for exclusion” (p. 26). Sleep follows this logic. It interrupts, does not respond, refuses. It suspends the demand for usefulness, making room for other forms of presence: withdrawal and opacity.

Maurice Blanchot (1982) thinks of sleep as a presence without address. Like literature, which “says nothing, affirms nothing, commands nothing” (p. 51), sleep dissolves the self and renders time porous. A form of communication without representation — a silent publication.

Even the body, as Foucault (1973) might suggest, communicates through opacity. The sleeping body escapes the clinical gaze. It refuses to be read, classified, diagnosed. It remains at rest.

In that rest, something deep is shared: not information, but atmosphere; not clarity, but care. Sleep brings the human back in tune with the world’s metabolic rhythms — animal, vegetal, planetary. An intimate gesture that also aligns with the collective, the unconscious, the invisible.

Let us begin, then, with the sleeping princess — not as myth, but as method. She is not waiting to be awakened. She dreams the world differently. What follows is a reflection on sleep as technique, counter-temporality, and speculative infrastructure for publishing — not as a management of visibility, but as a cultivation of shadow, slowness, and resistance.

Sleep as Technique and Infrastructure
— or, The Architecture of the Sleeping Body

The tale mentions a palace, but it does not describe the place where Sleeping Beauty rests. What space sustains a hundred years of sleep? What kind of architecture shelters a time without progression? What materials protect a body out of sync with historical rhythm?

To think of sleep as a technique requires asking what is needed for it to occur. Sleep is not merely a biological state but a construction. It requires a bed, a rhythm, a silent and trustworthy environment. In this sense, sleep is both a spatial and temporal practice — an infrastructure. Just as a book has structure, sleep demands conditions that allow it to endure.

Sometimes, these conditions are imposed. Mbembe (2003), through the lens of necropolitics, describes forms of governance that delay, suspend, or hollow out life. Sleep can become a tool of control — a way to immobilize bodies, time, and expression.

Modernity builds infrastructures to accelerate flows: goods, data, people. Sleep, on the other hand, slows things down. It protects rest, softens noise, dissolves urgency. Hersey (2022) emphasizes the importance of reclaiming time — not just through rest, but through the rejection of imposed rhythms: of production, response, and surveillance. Here, sleep becomes a gesture of active deceleration.

More than withdrawal, sleep is a ritual shared among species. It predates writing and law. It traverses everyday life as a common practice. It is not a luxury — it is a vital ritual, repeated across almost all living organisms. A silent liturgy.

Rather than absence, sleep represents another kind of presence, with its own times and forms. Perhaps the bed is more than a piece of furniture: an altar that holds a kind of listening without language.

Foucault (1973) analyzed how the clinical gaze turns the body into a case. Sleep resists that exposure. The sleeping body escapes legibility; it does not cooperate with medical inscription. It does not narrate, record, or respond. It is an archive without writing — repeated, but not fixed.

Here, sleep becomes a political practice. It interrupts the regime of visibility. It suspends the logic of utility. It asserts the autonomy of existing beyond availability and performance.

In the fairy tale, sleep spreads across the entire kingdom. It is not individual — it is structural. Guards, cooks, cats, clocks: all enter suspended time. The palace becomes a closed book. The pause affects the entire machine.

Crary (2013) observes that sleep disrupts models of continuous attention. By slowing down, it challenges the norms of modern time. What if publications could emerge slowly, disappear, repeat, hibernate? Could we imagine an editorial practice paced by sleep and rest?

In this context, we can imagine practices aligned with the time of sleep. One such speculative proposition is attributed to the (imagined) artist Nia Okonkwo, whose work merges ecological and spiritual concerns, inspired by both ancestral knowledge from the African continent and contemporary debates on dematerialization and care. Born in southeastern Nigeria, she grew up among community gardens and local libraries where knowledge circulated more through oral transmission than formal archiving. Her work grows from this coexistence between regenerative practices and attentive listening, between the visible and the yet-to-germinate. Through memories of spiritual practices, oral storytelling, and informal archives where written words mingled with botanical and cosmological knowledge, Nia developed a sensitivity to what grows slowly, resists immediate translation, and operates silently or on the margins of visibility.

Drawing from this imaginary, she conceived the Book of Humus — an editorial object designed to be buried. This publication decomposes over time, becoming part of the soil it inhabits. Made from seed paper, organic inks, and starch fibers, its existence is both ephemeral and symbiotic: as it disappears, it generates life. It is a publication not meant to be archived, but absorbed — an editorial proposal attuned to the earth’s metabolism, where disappearance is not failure but the natural conclusion of a cycle.

The publisher Temporary Services works with books that wait: publications that are not updated, not promoted, and that reveal themselves to the reader in their own time. These practices align with the principles of the slow publishingmovement, which proposes editorial rhythms that respect human time, ecological cycles, and the value of unhurriedness.
(https://temporaryservices.org/served/publishing-2/)

Tricia Hersey, founder of The Nap Ministry, embodies an editorial practice grounded in sleep as spiritual, political, and cultural resistance. Her work draws from the Black experience in the United States and the Afro-American spiritual tradition, proposing rest as an act of justice and repair. Her publications — through zines, social media, poetic texts, and collective rituals — function as liturgies of rest, designed to interrupt the rhythms of forced productivity and activate inner listening. Rather than conveying content, these editions enact pauses, evoke gestures of care, and establish a non-extractive time in which silence, the body, and rest become forms of knowledge and sharing.
(https://thenapministry.com)

In other experiments, such as the Japanese project Books in Sleep, books only become legible under specific atmospheric conditions — of light, humidity, or temperature — suggesting an editorial form that responds to the environment rather than the market. This project plays with the idea of conditional legibility, where access to content depends on the sensory availability of the object and the surrounding space. The pages, often printed with invisible or heat-activated inks, become readable only in certain moments, creating an intimate and ephemeral relationship with the reader. Instead of offering immediate reading, these books challenge patience and attention, proposing an editorial form that emerges slowly — like a dream that needs the right conditions to be remembered.
(https://www.etsy.com/listing/877187786/deep-sleep-mysterious-coloring-book)

Even within the exhibition context, editorial infrastructures of withdrawal can emerge: libraries in darkness, reading beds installed in galleries, books accessible only in silence, or reading zones where slowness is part of the device. These spaces do not merely display content — they create conditions for suspension, expanded listening, and a reconfiguration of editorial time as sensory experience.

Speculative proposals by imagined figures like Amélia Duarte, Tariq Lemma, and Yara Mensah expand this editorial logic of suspension. Each, from distinct contexts, invents relationships between body, listening, and publishing that destabilize conventional editorial time.

Amélia Duarte, a sound artist and choreographer from Lisbon, has developed immersive installations where the reader’s body merges with the editorial environment. Her training in respiratory performance and somatic practices led her to create The Sleep Machine — a sensory installation that proposes the book as a rhythmic device, akin to guided meditation: a padded space where the visitor lies down and leafs through a book with no printed text, whose pages release gentle fragrances and deep breathing sounds. The publication communicates not through words, but through atmosphere — a reading through the body, guided by breath.

Tariq Lemma, a designer and writer based between Casablanca and Marseille, weaves together Maghrebi oral storytelling traditions with audio-text experimentation. His practice involves creating nocturnal reading experiences, where zines are activated by voice and sound, cultivating a state of liminal attention. The Daydream Zine emerged from his research into induced drowsiness and automatic writing: a performative project of sound zines distributed during nighttime sessions. Readers receive headphones and lie in hammocks. Content is activated by voices that drift between narration and whispering, inducing sleep states. Files self-delete after listening, and readers are invited to write or draw what they recall upon waking.

Yara Mensah, an artist and researcher of Ghanaian descent trained in performative design in London, works with ephemeral publications and performative activation of sensitive archives. Her Spectral Editions explore the relationship between visibility and presence, using thermal materials and environmental conditions to stage editions that appear and disappear — like a memory, like a spell. Printed with thermochromatic or phosphorescent inks, her magazines reveal their contents only under specific light or heat conditions. After the event, they return to opacity. The publication lives as an apparition — visible for an instant, then gone.

These practices show that sleep, latency, opacity, and withdrawal are not just metaphors — they are possible foundations for another way of editing, writing, and sharing worlds.

Dreaming as Speculative Writing
— or, What Sleeping Beauty Writes

When Sleeping Beauty sleeps, she dreams. And in her dreams, she writes — without words, without rules, with no need to be read. Her stillness becomes expression. Through sleep, a form of writing begins to unfold within the body, without resorting to formal language.

Dreaming is the construction of narratives with images and sensations that do not follow traditional logic. Times, memories, and affects intertwine. In this process, writing emerges as a speculative flow — non-linear and open to multiple possibilities. It is a form of creation that arises from free imagination, with no need for external validation.

Maurice Blanchot (1982) describes literature as the space where language ceases to serve a communicative function. In dreams, the subject is transformed. “The writer writes in the night,” he says, “to reach the point where no one speaks anymore” (p. 41). This writing does not seek to conclude, but to resonate — it opens meanings rather than fixing them.

Dreams possess speculative power. They allow for the rehearsal of futures yet to be lived, and for the creation of rhythms that escape ordinary chronology. For Hersey (2022), rest and dreaming function as portals for imagining other forms of world-making (p. 144). In a time dominated by algorithms and predictability, the dream offers a free terrain — intimate, uncertain, and fertile.

There are dense dreams, marked by exhaustion, repetition, or overload. Ahmed (2021) acknowledges that many people live in this continuous state of effort and depletion (p. 219). And yet, even when the body is exhausted, imagination remains active. The dream endures as a space of creation and resistance.

Sleeping Beauty’s slumber can be read as a writing in progress. Her dreams wait for no one; they operate silently, reorganizing experiences, affects, and meanings. The figure of the prince appears only as a detail within a much vaster process, one conducted by her alone.

To write speculatively does not mean to plan or systematize. It can begin in sleep, in drift, in dispersion. The dream anticipates conscious writing — it is the creative gesture that moves within the body before reaching the page.

When imagining the future of publishing, dreaming offers a path of experimentation. Harney and Moten (2013) describe the undercommons as a space of non-institutional creation, where refusal blends with imagination. The dream lives in this same space: it edits the world in a fluid, porous, intuitive manner.

Perhaps the most transformative practice, for those who write or edit, is to embrace the dream as method. Instead of structuring, listen. Instead of concluding, accompany. In a time governed by metrics and productivity, the dream-object proposes another logic: sensitive, slow, resistant to control.

Sleeping Beauty keeps dreaming. Of transforming worlds, of times to come. And that dream is also a kind of writing that we can learn to read — not to decipher, but to accompany.

Publishing Through Withdrawal
— or, The Sleeping Body as Editorial Refusal

Withdrawal does not always signify absence. It can affirm a different kind of presence. By stepping away from visibility and refusing the imposed rhythm of production, a different editorial gesture emerges — one not based on volume, but on suspension, pause, and restraint.

Sleeping Beauty does not publish in conventional terms. Her body, surrendered to rest, alters the tempo of the world around her. Her stillness marks another mode of communication: without stage, without speech, without urgency. With her, time bends, labor is suspended, history slows.

Sara Ahmed (2021) understands complaint as an active form of non-participation — an interruption that communicates (p. 76). In this sense, sleep becomes a gesture that disrupts systems demanding continuous attention and constant movement. Those who rest when performance is expected occupy public space with a different language: the language of the body in retreat.

Roland Barthes (1972) wrote about the neutral as an aesthetic strategy that interrupts the conflict of signs. In publishing, this neutrality acts as a form of resistance. A blank page does not cancel meaning — it proposes another relationship to it. The pause edits as much as excess does.

Édouard Glissant (1997) defends the right to opacity. Choosing what remains untranslated is an act of sovereignty. Withdrawal, in this case, is not retreat but protection — of the intimate, the ungraspable, of that which resists full exposure (p. 189).

We live under the pressure of continuous exposure. Franco “Bifo” Berardi (2019) describes a regime of acceleration that wears down language, bodies, and attention. In such a scenario, stopping is no longer optional — it becomes urgent. Sensibility needs time to recompose. Withdrawal, here, takes on a regenerative value — making space to feel, to listen, to imagine again.

Achille Mbembe (2003) observes how certain regimes operate not only through labor but also through suspension: the body controlled through waiting, through managed inactivity. Sleep, then, becomes a way of managing one’s own time — a gesture of reappropriation within environments ruled by acceleration.

For Tricia Hersey (2022), rest is a refusal to surrender the body to the productive machine. It is a practice of radical care. In this context, publishing is not measured by visibility, but by rhythm and listening. Withdrawal can constitute a form of editorial interruption — one that values latency, care, and distance.

In a field where visibility is often confused with value, withdrawal proposes different measures. Not all work needs to be present. Not all writing needs to be shown. There are texts cultivated on the margins, in different times, at other frequencies. Withdrawal, in this sense, is also form.

Berardi’s critique reminds us, however, that not all withdrawals are voluntary. Many result from overload, burnout, exhaustion. Like the curse in the tale, some editorial silences reflect structures that impose interruption. The challenge lies in transforming that forced interval into a space for reinvention.

The witch represents that structural control. More than a character, she embodies a logic of ordering — what Federico Campagna (2018) calls the metaphysics of Technique. To confront her is to activate another regime: that of Magic, based on invocation, waiting, and transformation. It is on this terrain that sleep gains force — as a space for recomposing the possible.

Harney and Moten (2013) speak of the undercommons as spaces of creation outside the norm, where refusal aligns with invention. To inhabit these spaces means to remain partially visible, to exist without being captured. Sleep follows this same logic: it does not fully withdraw but deviates from dominant circuits.

In the tale, the forest surrounding the castle acts as a symbolic boundary. It protects the time of dreaming, wards off the urgency of reading. The landscape that grows with sleep does not block access — it invites waiting. Publishing through rest is to structure time differently: with care, hesitation, and slow maturation.

While today’s publishers are expected to maintain constant presence, accelerated production, and total transparency, Sleeping Beauty offers another paradigm: that of the one who withdraws so the world may be remade. Her gesture becomes an editorial act. She offers no content. She offers time.

Sleeping as World-Making
— or, The Atmosphere of the Sleeping Kingdom

The forest grew around the princess, expanding like a living ecosystem. Thorns, vines, moss, and birds built a new landscape during the pause. The sleeping kingdom became a space of rewilding, where time no longer flowed according to the logic of urgency.

Sleeping is a form of world-making. Rather than evading reality, sleep offers a way of relating that is atmospheric, metabolic, and shared. Emanuele Coccia (2018) describes the world as an “immense and mobile atmosphere” (p. 35), shaped by every living being that breathes within it. Sleep belongs to this vibratory field. It surrounds us, passes through us, connects.

The resting body integrates into this vast web of relations. During sleep, the human dissolves boundaries and enters a state of deep attunement with the environment. This presence is relational: pulses, flows, images. To sleep is to cohabitate with other forms of life — in silence and in listening. As Anna Tsing (2015) suggests, “we are contaminated by our encounters” (p. 27). Sleep embraces this contamination as openness to the world.

This shared gesture requires no language. Sleeping allows us to tune into larger rhythms — the falling light, the cooling air, the slowing breath. These cycles unfold on planetary scales. The time of sleep follows the world, not the clock.

Sleeping Beauty fully surrenders to this transformation. She merges into the forest, becomes part of its fabric. Her resting body attunes to the earth. The sleep she inhabits manifests as symbiosis, where time and space are subtly reorganized. Here, sleeping is participation in a continuous, silent editorial process.

Isabelle Stengers (2018) proposes a “cosmopolitics” that values composition with all beings — including those who do not speak in conventional ways. Sleep educates in this form of listening, inviting us to slow down, to suspend immediate action. It encourages a way of being that recognizes the world as a sensitive organism in ongoing composition.

In editorial practice, sleep reveals itself as a form of incubation. Instead of launching content into the world, it offers time for new realities to form. The pause protects, latency nourishes, rest prepares. To publish through sleep becomes a gesture of attention and care.

During this process, the sleeping kingdom grows fertile. Its dense atmosphere shelters possibilities in gestation. The structures that emerge through sleep express slowness, listening, and diffuse participation. The resting body dissolves into an extended presence, touching the world without dominating it.

To world-make through sleep is to trust what grows without control. The blank page welcomes this trust. Sleeping Beauty awaits a world capable of listening to her — not through conquest or urgency, but through a dreamt affinity, shared together.

Awakening Otherwise
— or, What Comes After the Long Sleep

At the end of the tale, Sleeping Beauty awakens. But what truly transforms is not only her — it is the world around her. The forest has grown, suspended bodies have reorganized time, and the castle has become a place where silence has nurtured other forms of sensitive life.

This essay proposed sleep as a speculative key to rethink how things are made visible, how they are listened to, or how they are made to exist in the world. To sleep, to withdraw, to disappear for a time, to inhabit the interval — all these were explored as possibilities for creating spaces of relation, attention, and curatorship. It is not about refusing visibility, but about rethinking its rhythms, its conditions, and its affects.

The figure of the witch, far from being merely evil, here represents the force that breaks with linearity. With her gesture, she inaugurates an expanded time, a spell that is also an incubator. It is in this suspended time that another kind of transformation is revealed — slow, breathed, sometimes invisible.

The practices evoked — drawn from both real artists and fictional figures created for this text — propose forms of making visible that do not depend on speed, response, or constant presence. They are practices that listen to the body, that operate at the threshold of wakefulness, that activate unstable, mutable, ephemeral materials. Each cultivates, in its own way, an aesthetic of expanded attention, an ethics of partial presence, a politics of chosen invisibility.

Sleep is not a passive state. It is a territory. A threshold where the world is reconfigured through means that escape instrumental reason. A way of inhabiting reality without forcing it to translate itself. As Federico Campagna suggests, there is a magical dimension to experience that refuses totalization — where gestures are not exhausted by utility, and images do not require proof.

To awaken otherwise is, therefore, to step away from functional wakefulness and enter an ecology of perception. It is to accept sleep as method — as a philosophical and sensitive operation. It is not a return to the same with rested eyes, but a return with a different gaze — attuned to enigma, open to coexisting with what does not fully reveal itself. In this sense, sleep is neither pause nor escape: it is a curatorship of the invisible, a choreography of intensities that slips past the noise of the world and preserves what has not yet been named.

More than a gesture, it is a cultivated listening in the dark. There are forms of knowledge that grow like fungi: slowly, outside the field of vision, yet indispensable to the cycle of matter. Thinking with sleep means accepting this subterranean logic — where knowledge is not shouted, not displayed, only insinuated. Perhaps there, in that porous and unlit territory, other epistemologies lie hidden: less vertical, more humid, closer to decomposition than to clarity.

And at the center of this fertile soil, there is also poison. A poison that does not destroy, but transforms. Like the witch’s apple — beautiful, shiny, and fatal to haste. An invitation to suspension. An edible spell. Sleep, in this sense, is the bite that delays, that disturbs the clock and offers another time, another metabolism. Not to lose meaning, but to let it ferment. Like an alchemical toxin, sleep reorders intensities — it corrodes certainties, sweetens time, and opens cracks in the logic of the visible. Whoever dares to sleep with that apple still in their mouth may awaken with a new alphabet inscribed in the body.

References

Ahmed, S. (2021). Complaint!. Duke University Press.

Barthes, R. (1972). Empire of Signs (R. Howard, Trans.). Hill and Wang.

Berardi, F. (2019). Breathing: Chaos and Poetry (S. Daniels, Trans.). Semiotext(e).

Blanchot, M. (1982). The Space of Literature (A. Smock, Trans.). University of Nebraska Press.

Campagna, F. (2018). Technic and Magic: The Reconstruction of Reality. Bloomsbury Academic.

Coccia, E. (2018). The Life of Plants: A Metaphysics of Mixture (D. W. Webb, Trans.). Polity.

Crary, J. (2013). 24/7: Late Capitalism and the Ends of Sleep. Verso.

Glissant, É. (1997). Poetics of Relation (B. Wing, Trans.). University of Michigan Press.

Harney, S., & Moten, F. (2013). The Undercommons: Fugitive Planning and Black Study. Minor Compositions.

Hersey, T. (2022). Rest Is Resistance: A Manifesto. Little, Brown Spark.

Mbembe, A. (2003). Necropolitics. Public Culture, 15(1), 11–40. https://doi.org/10.1215/08992363-15-1-11

Nancy, J.-L. (2009). The Fall of Sleep (C. Mandell, Trans.). Fordham University Press.

Stengers, I. (2018). Another Science is Possible: A Manifesto for Slow Science (S. Muecke, Trans.). Polity.

Tsing, A. L. (2015). The Mushroom