A library at closing time, when you have more time than usual — for a night when you do not want to think

The story, in full

Everything here will still be here tomorrow. The last of the day's light is going out of the high windows. The library closed twenty minutes ago, and the staff are working along the far shelves, switching off sections.

The carpet has flattened every sound in the building down to nothing. The windows are dark enough now to reflect the room back at you. The air smells of paper, dust and floor polish.

Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.

A book lies open on the next table, face down, which is technically not allowed. The clock above the door is the old kind, with a second hand that moves in small jumps.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.

If your mind has wandered, that's not a mistake. Noticing is the practice. Notice whether you're breathing or holding. Start breathing again.

Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.

Let it all get further away. Slower.

Let the room get slightly further away. Just the dark. Nothing needs deciding tonight.

This is the longer version, for a day with some slack in it.

The end. Sleep well.

12 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for quiet, books.