A lighthouse at the end of a long day (a sleep story), when you only have a few minutes — for jet lag

There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it. The window is thick and slightly green at the edges.

Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing. The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring. The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let your palms open if they were closed.

Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Your chest can be still now.

There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person. Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders.

Let your hands be completely still. Let your calves spread out and flatten.

If you've lost track of where we were, you haven't lost anything important. If you're counting the minutes, that's fine. Count them and come back.

Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.

Let the quiet be boring. Let the dark be ordinary.

Let them. The words can start to blur now. Slower now.

A few minutes is the whole requirement.

Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.