A bus at night — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have tried everything else — for jet lag

The driver takes the corners slowly, as if the bus were full. There is a long stretch of road ahead with nothing on it. A streetlight passes across the ceiling every few seconds.

You are on the top deck of the last bus, in the front seat, with the whole window to yourself. There are four other people downstairs and nobody up here. The heating comes through the floor and makes your feet warm.

Let your hands be completely still. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.

The bus stops and starts with a slow, heavy movement. Your ticket is on the seat beside you, already used.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let the mattress take all of it.

Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.

You do not have to get off for another twenty minutes. The city goes past below you, shopfronts and bus stops and people waiting for other buses.

Notice whether you're breathing or holding. Start breathing again. If your mind is quiet, don't grab at it. Quiet comes and goes too.

Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.

Sleep. You do not have to count them.

Let the quiet be boring. Almost nothing to do now. Let them.

This assumes you have already tried the obvious things.

Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.