A lighthouse at the end of a long day — a slow story for the end of the day, if you are doing this in the middle of the day — for an overtired night

The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it. The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass.

The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring. Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing. There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting.

Let the mattress take all of it. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.

Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Let your palms open if they were closed.

The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders.

Your chest can be still now. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.

Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.

A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not. The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it.

Notice how quickly your mind labels things: good, bad, boring, nice. Notice any urge to check something. You can wait two more minutes.

Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.

Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. The words can start to blur now.

Stay with the weight of your body. Let your breathing do the rest. They will find their own way out.

Midday is an underrated time for this.

Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.