Sleep story: a lighthouse at the end of a long day, when you have been meaning to start — for a restless night

The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not. Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders.

Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing. The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it.

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

Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not. There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person.

Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.

There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting. The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again.

If you're sleepy, sit up a little. Or let the sleepiness be there. Notice if you've been frowning at your own thoughts.

Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.

They will find their own way out. Let the next part go past without you.

Slower now. You can stop listening properly. Let the dark be ordinary.

You have been meaning to start. This is the least intimidating way in.

Let everything get quiet, including this.