Sleep story · quiet, books
A library at closing time, if you are doing this in the middle of the day — for a racing mind
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 carpet has flattened every sound in the building down to nothing. Your own book is heavy in your hands, and you have stopped reading it.
Everything here will still be here tomorrow. Someone is pushing a trolley two rows away, and you can hear each wheel separately. The air smells of paper, dust and floor polish.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
Let the mattress take all of it. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
The reading room you are in has one lamp left on, and it is the one above your table. A book lies open on the next table, face down, which is technically not allowed.
Your chest can be still now. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
The library closed twenty minutes ago, and the staff are working along the far shelves, switching off sections. The last of the day's light is going out of the high windows.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
The windows are dark enough now to reflect the room back at you. There is a trolley of returned books beside the desk, waiting to be put back.
Your ankles can go loose now. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
The library closed twenty minutes ago, and the staff are working along the far shelves, switching off sections. The reading room you are in has one lamp left on, and it is the one above your table.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
There is a trolley of returned books beside the desk, waiting to be put back. The carpet has flattened every sound in the building down to nothing.
If you've lost track of where we were, you haven't lost anything important. You might be planning something. Notice the planning, then come back.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
Let the room get slightly further away. You can stop listening properly.
Let the quiet be boring. Nothing needs deciding tonight. Just the weight.
Let your breathing do the rest. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Leave it there.
Midday is an underrated time for this.
Let everything get quiet, including this.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for quiet, books.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: a garden in the rain, when you are doing this for the first time — for a racing mind, Sleep story: a caravan by the sea, when you have more time than usual — for waking too early or A field under snow — a slow story for the end of the day, when your attention is scattered — for winding down.