A hotel room somewhere — a slow story for the end of the day, on a low-energy afternoon — for a night when you do not want to think

The carpet is the colour of weak coffee and absorbs every sound. The bed has been turned down, and the sheets are cool on the side you have not been lying on. The room is on the fourth floor, and the window looks out onto a street with one lit shop.

Nobody in this city knows where you are, and that is restful. There is a small card on the desk with the breakfast times on it, which do not matter tonight. The air conditioning makes a low sound that you will stop noticing within a minute.

Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Feel your cheeks let go.

Let your hands be completely still. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

There is a bottle of water on the bedside table with the cap already loosened. Your case is open on the luggage rack, half unpacked.

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

If you feel emotional, you don't have to explain it to anyone, including yourself. Notice any urge to check something. You can wait two more minutes.

Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.

The words can start to blur now. Let it all get further away.

Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. They will find their own way out. Just the dark.

Low-energy afternoons are what this was written for.

The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.