Sleep story · quiet, books
A library at closing time, after eating too much — for a night when you do not want to think
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
The clock above the door is the old kind, with a second hand that moves in small jumps. The windows are dark enough now to reflect the room back at you. A book lies open on the next table, face down, which is technically not allowed.
There is a trolley of returned books beside the desk, waiting to be put back. The last of the day's light is going out of the high windows. Everything here will still be here tomorrow.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Feel your wrists loosen.
Your own book is heavy in your hands, and you have stopped reading it. The reading room you are in has one lamp left on, and it is the one above your table.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your hands be completely still.
Someone is pushing a trolley two rows away, and you can hear each wheel separately. The air smells of paper, dust and floor polish.
Your ankles can go loose now. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
The carpet has flattened every sound in the building down to nothing. The library closed twenty minutes ago, and the staff are working along the far shelves, switching off sections.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Feel your cheeks let go.
A book lies open on the next table, face down, which is technically not allowed. Someone is pushing a trolley two rows away, and you can hear each wheel separately.
Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
The library closed twenty minutes ago, and the staff are working along the far shelves, switching off sections. The clock above the door is the old kind, with a second hand that moves in small jumps.
If you're counting the minutes, that's fine. Count them and come back. Notice any urge to check something. You can wait two more minutes.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let your palms open if they were closed.
Just the weight. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.
Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Stay with the weight of your body. Softer.
Just the dark. You can stop listening properly. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.
Do this sitting up, not lying down, if you have just eaten.
That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.
21 paragraphs, roughly 4 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for quiet, books.
If this story does not settle you, try A fire dying down, when your attention is scattered — for the hours after a late shift, A boat at anchor — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are somewhere unfamiliar — for winding down or A bus at night — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are too tired to try hard — for waking too early.