Sleep story: a library at closing time, when you only have a few minutes — for waking too early

The story, in full

Your own book is heavy in your hands, and you have stopped reading it. The reading room you are in has one lamp left on, and it is the one above your table. The library closed twenty minutes ago, and the staff are working along the far shelves, switching off sections.

The clock above the door is the old kind, with a second hand that moves in small jumps. A book lies open on the next table, face down, which is technically not allowed. The air smells of paper, dust and floor polish.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let your palms open if they were closed.

Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

The windows are dark enough now to reflect the room back at you. Everything here will still be here tomorrow.

Your chest can be still now. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Feel your wrists loosen.

Someone is pushing a trolley two rows away, and you can hear each wheel separately. The last of the day's light is going out of the high windows.

If you feel numb, that's a valid thing to feel. Nothing to fix. Notice how you're sitting. Adjust if you need to. Then settle again.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.

Let them. You can stop listening properly.

Let it all get further away. Sleep. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.

A few minutes is the whole requirement.

Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.

14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for quiet, books.