Sleep story: a kitchen late at night, when you are doing this for the first time — for a night when you do not want to think

The tiles under your feet are cold in one corner and warm in another. A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often. There is a cup of tea beside you that has gone past drinking temperature.

There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday. Your chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it. There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either.

Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.

Let the mattress take all of it. Feel your cheeks let go.

The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on. The clock on the oven shows a time that feels later than it is.

Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.

Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.

The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter. Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once.

You might be planning something. Notice the planning, then come back. If you've lost track of where we were, you haven't lost anything important.

Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.

Let the dark be ordinary. Softer.

Slower. Let it all get further away. Just the breath.

If this is your first go, stay with the plainest version of the instructions.

There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.