Sleep story: a field under snow, before something

The story, in full

Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time. The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off.

The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you.

Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let your hands be completely still.

The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows. There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.

You might be planning something. Notice the planning, then come back. If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.

Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Slower.

Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Sleep. Just the dark.

It works best in the hour before something difficult.

The end. Sleep well.

12 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.