The house after everyone is asleep (a sleep story), when you want to be left alone — for a night when you do not want to think

There is nothing left on the list for today. Outside, a car goes past and its headlights sweep across the ceiling, then are gone. Everything in the room is exactly where it was left.

The radiator clicks once as it cools down. The floorboards have stopped creaking because nobody is walking on them. There is a chair by the window that nobody sits in during the day.

Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.

Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.

The curtains are not quite closed, and there is a thin line of streetlight along the wall. The fridge hums on and off in the kitchen, and that is the loudest thing in the building.

Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.

Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.

A glass of water sits on the table, half finished. Everyone went to bed an hour ago, and the house has stopped making the sounds it makes during the day.

Notice how quickly your mind labels things: good, bad, boring, nice. Notice any urge to check something. You can wait two more minutes.

Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.

Let it all get further away. You can stop listening properly.

Let the dark be ordinary. The words can start to blur now. Let the quiet be boring.

Nothing here asks anything of you socially.

Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.