A library at closing time, when you feel fine and want to stay that way — for a racing mind

The library closed twenty minutes ago, and the staff are working along the far shelves, switching off sections. There is a trolley of returned books beside the desk, waiting to be put back. 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. The carpet has flattened every sound in the building down to nothing. The air smells of paper, dust and floor polish.

Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Feel your wrists loosen.

Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.

The last of the day's light is going out of the high windows. Someone is pushing a trolley two rows away, and you can hear each wheel separately.

Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Let your calves spread out and flatten.

If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back. If you feel emotional, you don't have to explain it to anyone, including yourself.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.

Just the breath. Almost nothing to do now.

Sleep. Let them. Nothing needs deciding tonight.

Feeling fine is a good reason to do this, not a reason to skip it.

I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.