A hotel room somewhere (a sleep story), when you have tried everything else — for an overtired night

There is a small card on the desk with the breakfast times on it, which do not matter tonight. The room is on the fourth floor, and the window looks out onto a street with one lit shop. The air conditioning makes a low sound that you will stop noticing within a minute.

There is a bottle of water on the bedside table with the cap already loosened. Nobody in this city knows where you are, and that is restful. The bathroom light is off, and the fan has finally stopped.

Feel your cheeks let go. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.

Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Your chest can be still now.

The bed has been turned down, and the sheets are cool on the side you have not been lying on. The curtains are heavy and close properly, which is rarer than it should be.

Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.

Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.

A tram goes past below, and you hear it before you see it. The pillow is slightly too soft, and you fold it in half, which fixes it.

If your mind is quiet, don't grab at it. Quiet comes and goes too. Notice how you're sitting. Adjust if you need to. Then settle again.

Let your palms open if they were closed. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.

Just the dark. Let them.

You can stop listening properly. You do not have to count them. Let your breathing do the rest.

This assumes you have already tried the obvious things.

There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.