Sleep story · quiet, books
A library at closing time — a slow story for the end of the day, when you want to be left alone — for the hours after a late shift
The last hour, when the lights go down row by row.
Lights off. Press begin and let the story read itself to you, at the pace of sleep.
Screen on or off — we suggest dimming it, or simply closing your eyes after the first paragraph.
The story, in full
Your own book is heavy in your hands, and you have stopped reading it. The library closed twenty minutes ago, and the staff are working along the far shelves, switching off sections. Someone is pushing a trolley two rows away, and you can hear each wheel separately.
Everything here will still be here tomorrow. The clock above the door is the old kind, with a second hand that moves in small jumps. The reading room you are in has one lamp left on, and it is the one above your table.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Let the mattress take all of it.
The last of the day's light is going out of the high windows. A book lies open on the next table, face down, which is technically not allowed.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
The windows are dark enough now to reflect the room back at you. The carpet has flattened every sound in the building down to nothing.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let your palms open if they were closed.
There is a trolley of returned books beside the desk, waiting to be put back. The air smells of paper, dust and floor polish.
Feel your wrists loosen. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
The last of the day's light is going out of the high windows. The windows are dark enough now to reflect the room back at you.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
The clock above the door is the old kind, with a second hand that moves in small jumps. The air smells of paper, dust and floor polish.
If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own. If your mind has wandered, that's not a mistake. Noticing is the practice.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
Let the quiet be boring. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.
Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Let your breathing do the rest. You do not have to count them.
Softer. Just the weight. Slower now.
Nothing here asks anything of you socially.
The end. Sleep well.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for quiet, books.
If this story does not settle you, try A field under snow — a slow story for the end of the day, when your attention is scattered — for a night when you do not want to think, A hotel room somewhere (a sleep story), if you are sceptical about all of this — for a night when you do not want to think or A lighthouse at the end of a long day, before you go back to something hard — for winding down.