An attic room (a sleep story), when you are at home and cannot settle — for an overtired night

The rain on the roof tiles is much closer and louder up here than anywhere else in the house. The lamp is on the floor beside the bed because there is no room for a table. There is a dormer window with a deep sill, and a mug left on it from last night.

The bed is pushed into the low corner, which makes it feel like a den. The radiator is small and makes a ticking sound as it cools. The rain changes intensity every few minutes and never quite stops.

Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.

Your ankles can go loose now. Let your calves spread out and flatten.

The air up here is warmer than downstairs and smells of old wood. The roof is holding, and the rain is outside, and that is the whole arrangement.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.

Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.

A carrier bag of shopping is still on the chair, unpacked. There is a box of things under the eaves that nobody has opened in years.

If you're bored, stay with the boredom for a moment. It's usually thinner than it looks. Notice the pull to make this mean something. It doesn't have to.

Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.

Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Sleep.

Let the room get slightly further away. Slower now. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.

Being at home and unable to settle is a very specific problem.

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