A kitchen late at night — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are doing this for the first time — for a racing mind

Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once. A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often. There is a cup of tea beside you that has gone past drinking temperature.

Through the window you can see the back garden, which is doing nothing at all. Your chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it. There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either.

Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.

Feel your wrists loosen. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.

The clock on the oven shows a time that feels later than it is. The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.

The tiles under your feet are cold in one corner and warm in another. The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on.

If you're distracted by a sound, let the sound be the object for a moment. Notice how you're sitting. Adjust if you need to. Then settle again.

Let the mattress take all of it. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

Softer. Just the breath.

Slower. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Stay with the weight of your body.

If this is your first go, stay with the plainest version of the instructions.

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