Speaker 1: Hello there, I'm your storyteller for tonight. Take a slow
breath in through your nose and gently let it out.
Let your shoulders soften, Let your hands rest. You've arrived
in a quiet moment, and you don't need to do
anything at all. You are safe, You are welcome. Here
tonight we'll drift into a gentle world, one shaped by
calm and soft imagination. Let your breath steady, let your
thoughts grow lighter, Settle in and allow the story to begin.
You step into the light and feel warmth settle across
your shoulders. The air is dry and clear. A steady
breeze comes in from the sea and cools the places
where the sun has gathered. Cloth moves softly around your legs.
Sand lifts and settles. The morning has no hurry. You
follow a narrow lane bordered by pale stone. The walls
hold the coolness of the night and release it in
a calm breath. A young sycamore grows beside a small courtyard.
Its bark is rough and pale. You let your hand
rest there. The tree feels steady, it feels new to
this soil, and sure of it. You breathe with a
tree for a moment, and then continue. The city rises
and stretches in clean lines. Alexandria is young and confident.
Broad streets mark a careful grid. The east gate meets
the west gate with a long ribbon of stone. Cross
streets run toward the water and the gardens. The wind
moves down these corridors and carries the smell of salt,
pressed olive and cool clay. Voices carry as well a
mother call to a child. A cartwheel clicks over a
seam in the paving. A vendor tests a bronze bowl
with a fingertip and listens for a bright note. You
pass into a district where carved lotus capitals crown the columns.
The stone holds a soft sandy color that gathers light
without glare. Older houses stand close to newer villas. Mud
brick rest near white plaster. Roofs of timber feel strong
and simple. Everything here looks tended by patient hands. You
nod to a man at a doorway. He returns the
smaller smile and lifts a palm. The exchange is quiet,
Nothing more is needed. Beyond the roofs, the sea opens
like a long band of blue and green masts. Sway
in slow arcs. Cloth snaps once and then falls still
above the harbor. The great tower lifts into the clear sky.
Its bright and exact corners catch the sun and return
it in thin lines. The beacon is not yet at
full day of work, but smoke trails faintly from its
crown and drifts away on the wind. The sight steadies
you a structure that watches, a light that waits, a
promise that the night will be guided. When it comes,
you move toward a wider street. The surface is laid
with stone that feels even under your sandals. Children tap
the edges with bare heels and count in soft voices.
Water glints in long pools that run down the center
of the way. The pools are meant for sight and
for coolness, yet every so often a small hand skims
the surface. The ripples spread and fold like silk. An
attendant notices and pretends not to see. The city makes
room for small wa joys. The market gathers near the
junction where the long avenue meets a second great road.
Stalls stand in clean rows. A shade cloth runs from
post to post and lifts when the wind grows. Fish
lie on trays of damp rush. The scales shine like
small mirrors. Bread loaves cool in neat stacks and give
a faint sound when the crust settles. Dates rest in
wicker baskets and look like polished amber. A woman slices
figs with a calm hand and sets them on a
plate for tasting. You accept on The fruit is soft
and sweet. It tastes like a promise of plenty. You
sit for a moment on the edge of a fountain.
Water falls from a simple spout into a shallow bowl.
The bowl spills into a lower run that feeds a
narrow channel. The channel carries the water away with a
hushed sound that measures time without asking you to count.
The stone is cool under your palm. Sun warms the
back of your hand. The wind moves a lock of
hair across your temple and then moves it back. Your
breath settles into an easy pace around you. The city
performs small work with great care. A mason brushes dust
from a carved leaf and finds the curve he wanted.
A scribe turns a roll in his hands and checks
that the cord will not kink the edge. A boy
cleans a lamp with a bit of cloth and lifts
the wick to see if it is even. Each task
is simple. Each task is done to completion. The sight
has the same effect as the sound of the fountain.
It calms the mind. You rise and walk again. The
avenue widens and grows quiet for a stretch. Laurel and
myrtle hedge the path. The leaves give a clean scent
when the wind touches them. Through a break in the hedge,
you glimpse a long channel of water that runs toward
gardens and courts. The channel is lined with cut stone.
The joints are tight and smooth. Water sees this and behaves.
It moves in a straight body with a patient shine.
And attendant checks a small gate with a wooden handle.
He lifts it half the width of a finger and listens.
The pitch of the sound tells him it is right.
Farther on, you reach a rise. From here, the city
shows itself more completely. Roofs step down toward the water.
Colonnades throw long bands of shade. A few towers stand
clear against the sky. The lighthouse holds its place like
a thick star in daylight. From this height you can
trace the road that crosses the water to the island.
The stones sit close, and shore waves press the sides
and break in clean lines. People move along the way
in a quiet procession. A fisherman balances two baskets across
his shoulders. A pair of officials ride small horses with short
steps and precise heads. A porter leads a mule that
does not rush. The scene has order and comfort. You
descend and find yourself near a portico that leads to
a complex of haws and courts. The air shifts here.
It grows cooler and carries the dry scent of reed
gum and pale glue. Voices fall almost at once to
a murmur. Steps grow softer on the stone. You do
not rush the threshold. You pause and let your eyes
adjust to leaf, to shadow, and bright courtyards. A cat
sits in a square of sun and does not move.
The ears of the cat turn in small degrees as
it listens. The moment feels like a held breath. You
cross under the portico. Painted friezes line the walls in
measured scenes. Ships under sail binds in ordered curls. A
line of birds drawn with quick strokes that suggest flight
without motion. Floors carry mosaic borders in simple patterns that
repeat and soothe. A set of tall doors stands open
within a dome lets daylight fall in a ring. The
light finds pale dust and makes it slow and visible.
The air tastes faintly of stone that has known water
and sun for a long time. You feel welcome in
this quiet People move here with a shared rhythm. Students
walk in pairs and carry the tablets. Attendants set small
jars of water by the edges of benches. Older scholars
keep their gaze low and their pace even. No one hurries,
and nothing drags. The place feels balanced. It invites your
shoulders to drop and your jaw to loosen. It suggests
that the day will take care of itself. Beyond the
first court, another opens. A narrow rill travels along one
side and feed a clay basin where reeds stand in
a neat cluster. A breeze comes through, and the reeds
answer with a whisper. You touch the basin, it is cool.
The coolness moves into your fingers and up your arm,
and leaves a pleasant trace as it goes. You sip
from the jar. The attendant offers. The water is clean
and carries a hint of earth. You thank him with
a small nod. He nods back and returns to his
quiet post. You walk a shaded arcade that leads toward
a group of halls. The doors are high and plain.
The thresholds are worn to a soft curve that tells
you many feet have passed with care. From one doorway
comes the faint scrape of reed on papyrus. From another
comes a single, low voice that pauses and continues and
pauses again. The pauses feel generous, They allow meaning to
land without weight. Your steps match that cadence. They slow
and become nearly silent. You reach the end of the
arcade and stand for a moment in a pool of light.
You breathe. The city feels far and near at once.
The wind still finds you, the stone still holds you.
You are ready to go further in. You pass through
a tall doorway and feel a change in the air.
Light is softer here, the stone is cooler. The sounds
narrow to a hush that carries only what is needed.
A clerk looks up from a low table and nods.
He sets a small jar within reach. The water is
clear and faintly sweet. You drink and set the jar
down with care. Your breath lengthens without asking. Shelves rise
in quiet ranks along the walls. Baskets rest on them
in ordered rows. Each basket holds rolled sheets bound with
slender cords. Small tags hang from the cords and sway
when you pass. Ink strokes mark the tags with places
and names islands, coasts, valleys, stars, herbs, measures. The marks
look simple, the meaning runs deep. You trail a finger
along the basket rims and feel the texture of woven reed.
It is firm and light at once, guides you to
a longer haul. A dome above gathers the day and
sends it down in a calm circle. Thus drifts in
the circle and turns like a slow sky. At a
bench near the light, two scribes work with even hands.
One trims a reed to a fine point. The other
mixes soot and water until the ink darkens to a
quiet gloss. Their motions repeat, dip, touch, lift, rest. The
rhythm steadies the room. It steadies your chest. You notice
how the letters line up in straight bodies, how the
margins carry the same width, How judgments are made by
eye and yet look exact. Along the far wall. Maps
are pinned with small knots of thread. A narrow sea
lies like a strip of blue coasts bend and return.
A pilot line runs from harbor to harbour in short,
careful strokes. Beside the maps sits a small chest of
weights in bronze and stone. The pieces shine when the
light finds them. A boy tests them by placing grain
on one side and small discs on the other. He
smiles when the bars rest level, A fine thing to see.
The balance finds the middle and holds a side. Door
stands open onto a court with fig trees in meat pairs.
Someone has drawn figures in sand across a shallow board, triangles, circles,
lines that meet, and lines that refuse to meet. An
elder scholar stands with a child at his side. The
hair of the child lifts when the wind moves through
the court. The elder speaks in a low voice that
feels RESTful. He draws one line and then another, and
does not rush the space in between. He speaks of
sides that match. He speaks of numbers that have a
car relation. The child watches, then looks away, then watches again.
The elder does not press. He waits and then draws
a small square that makes the whole pattern clear. The
shoulders of the child ease. The elder brushes the sand smooth.
The sand returns to level ground without complaint. The elder
meets your gaze and gestures that you are welcome. He
asks if you prefer light or shade. You choose a
place near a window Where linen moves in a slow breath.
The fabric lifts and settles. The sound is gentle and even.
He lays a roll on the table and turns the
first edge for you. The papyrus feels warm where the
sun has touched it, and cool where the shadow holds.
The fibers show faint lines, like watered silk. Your hands
learn the weight in a moment, and then stop noticing.
You read of rivers, and of times to plant and
times to cut. You read of winds that hold their courses,
and of winds that shift with the moon. You read
of herbs that cool the skin and herbs that warm
the chest. Each passage offers a clear piece, and nothing more.
One piece sits well beside another. A sense grows that
the world is large and patient, that it will still
be there when you close your eyes. From the courtyard
comes the drip of a water clock drops fall in
countered measure from one jar to another. The clock has
no voice and gives no rebuke. It offers a steady kindness.
You listen without turning your head. The sound keeps the
edges of the day in order and leaves the middle free.
You let the middle hold you. A cat steps on
to the sill and blinks with long patience. Its coat
is the color of warm bread. It sits curls its
tail to its side, and studies the hall as if
reading it. The elder reaches without looking and sets a
small dish of water near the leg of the table.
The cat lowers its head and laps in careful SIPs.
Then it lifts its eyes to you and blinks again. Approval,
or at least acceptance. The feeling is a pleasant. The
clerk returns and asks if you would like to see
the copy room. You follow him through a short passage
that opens onto a space with many low tables. Lamps
with shields direct the light down and soften glare. Scribes
sit at measured distances so the scratch of one reed
does not drown the next. Each scribe keeps a string
with knots to check line length. When a line comes
to its end, the hand lives and rests. A breath
is taken. The next line begins. The room breathes like that,
even calm exact. At the far side, a woman holds
a page to the light and looks for thin patches.
She touches the weak places with the tip of a
small brush and strengthens them. The page darkens where the
stroke passes, and then dries clear. She nods. When the
sheet feels right in her hands, she stacks it with
the others and aligns the edges. With three careful taps.
The stack becomes a block, quiet and sure. You stand
before a case of instruments and look at a polished
disc that returns a bright coin of sun to the wall.
The coin climbs when you tilt the disk and slides
when you tilt it back. A cord is marked at
equal steps. A hand can hold it between two points
and learn a distance without needing to pace it. Near
the cord lies a tube with a narrow glass end.
You look through and see the bright edge of a roof.
Come close. The tool brings far to near with no
effort from you. The elder says, the sea pilots like that.
He says, a clear view is a fine companion to
a steady hand. You thank the clerk and return to
your window. The roll before you now speaks of the
coast west of the city, of small inlets where sand
is fine and pale, of stones that ring when struck,
and of stones that sound dull and mean rain of
birds that rest on the same ledge each year. Every
note is given without urgency. Every note implies a person
who watched and came back to right only when the
watching was done. You find comfort in that the world
turns and someone tends to the record. You do not
need to carry all of it alone. Afternoon leans toward
the first coolness. The linen lifts a little higher. The
circle of light on the table drifts the width of
a hand. A lamp is set ready, though it is
not yet lit. The elder closes the border of sand
in the court and wipes his hands on a clean cloth.
The child gathers a tablet and a cord and leaves
with small quick steps that grow slower as he reaches
the door. A guard in the arcade adjusts a strap
on his shoulder and looks out toward the garden. Nothing
demands him, and he is glad. The elder returns and
asks if you will stay longer. His voice holds the
day like a bowl holds water. He offers a new
roll that records the path of stars across the season.
Small marks show their heights. Small notes speak of mornings
when they rise before the sun, and evenings when they
last above the line of the sea. You follow the
marks with a fingertip. They will return. They always return.
The thought settles across your chest like a light shawl.
You exhale and feel your shoulders drop. The reed map
beneath your sandals gives a soft sound. The cat has
vanished to some private duty and will return when it pleases.
The water clock continues, the wind continues. Your eyes slow
at the edges. The elder sees this and sets a
cup near your hand, a mild tea, a clean taste,
a whisper of herb that suggests rest without demanding it.
You take a sip and feel a quiet line run
from throat to stomach and then outward. It asks nothing
more of you. Shadows lengthen along the floor and point
toward the door. Beyond the door, the city moves in
a lower register. Wheels sound softer, voices sound closer. The
tower across the water brightens, though the sun still stands.
You know it will carry the line of light into
the night, the way the clock carries the line of
drops through the day. You are content to be a
small thing in this careful order. You are content to
be carried. The elder touches the edge of the roll
and smiles. He says you may keep this place by
the window as long as you wish. He says the
light will be kind for another hour, and the lamb,
but after that will be kinder still. He says, the
room will quiet even more as evening comes, and that
quiet is very good for reading and for closing the
eyes between lines. You thank him with a small nod.
He returns the nod in the same measure. You look
back to the page. The letters are calm, the air
is cool, Your breath moves easily. You keep reading. If
you would like more calm sleep stories each week, you
can subscribe and rest with us again. You remain by
the window until the page feels learned by your hands.
Then the elder invites you to walk a little further
his pace is measured. Your steps match without effort. He
leads you through a narrow gallery, where a floor keeps
a cool line under your feet. The gallery opens to
a long room where tables stand in even ranks. At
each table lies a small weight to keep a page
from lifting in the breeze. The weights are smooth stones
with pale veins. Each stone looks like a small cloud
that forgot to move on. The elder touches one of
the stones and speaks quietly of custody. He says every
text is a guest. He says every guest is received
with courtesy and kept safe. He does not use big words,
he does not need them. He points to a low
chest near the door. Ships bring chests like this one
when they anchor in the harbor. Crews rest officers sign
their logs. A clerk visits with clean hands and a
calm voice. Texts are borrowed for a short while and
returned with new twins made here. He smiles at the
thought of twin pages going back out to sea. He
says it helps the world itself. You watch a scribe
lean over his work with a steady back. He writes
three lines, He stops, He breathes, and listens to the
small room. Then he writes three more lines. The pawes
sits between the sets like a soft cushion. Nothing presses,
nothing lags. The lamp near his hand wears a shield
that turns harsh light into a gently circle. Oil holes
still in the cup. The wick makes a flame as
long as a grain of barley. The edge of the
flame trembles and then forgets to tremble. Your eyes follow
the curve and rest. The elder guides you past a
case of small tools. There is a thread with knots
tied by equal fingers of space. There are reeds cut
short and reeds cut long. There is a narrow blade
that trims edges a clean line. A cloth with a
faint grit. To polish a sheet until it shines without glare,
you run a finger over the cloth. The grit feels
like the memory of sand after the tide is gone.
One tool for marking, one for measuring, one for finishing.
The room keeps a plain wisdom. Small means good results.
A sidestre climbs to a terrace that looks across in
a court. The elder leads you up. Each step is
shallow and asks little of your legs. At the top,
the air moves in a free path. Linen shades lift
and fall along the edge. The city looks quieter from here.
Roofs hold the sun in low plates of light. Shadows
stretch toward their evening homes. Far off, the great tower
keeps its form, like a promise that is never spent.
You place your hands on the wa warm rail. The
stone gives its heat to you and then lets.
Speaker 2: You go.
Speaker 1: On the terrace. A table holds a set of star charts,
pinned with thin cords. The marks are small and sure.
A curve here for a rising, a short bar there
for a setting, a line of notes in a hand
that breathes between words. The elder turns a chart a
small degree, and it becomes clear. He says, the heavens
move with patients. He says, patience is a shape that
the body can learn. He says the chest follows that shape.
When the breath slows and lengthens, he says, the mind follows.
When the chest is steady. You do not answer, You
simply breathe. He sets a slender tube into a wooden frame.
You look through and find the bright edge of a
cornice along the far court. The edge is close. Now
your eye rests on it without effort. The elder asks
you to blink once, and then to keep your gaze easy.
He speaks of near and far. He says the hand
can bring far to near with the tool. He says
the mind can bring worry to a far place with
a habit. He does not call it meditation. He does
not call it a practice. He leaves it as something natural,
as the wind that moves the linen shade. A bell
tone carries up a stair from a lower court, not sharp,
not loud, just a single note to say that another
hour has moved past. The water clock keeps its measure below.
You picture the drop leaving one cup and striking the next.
The sound is a line the day can hold You
lean your forearms on the rail. The muscles in your
shoulders find an easier place. The muscles in your jaw
forget their work. You do not make them remember. From
the terrace, the elder shows you a path that runs
behind the copy rooms. You follow him down. The path
passes a small garden where rows of reed grow in
a shallow bed. A gardener trims damage stalks with a
clean blade and sets the trimmings in a basket. He
looks up and nods, without breaking the rhythm of his hands.
The nod says more than words. It says this work
is quiet and good. It says you are welcome to
see it and pass on. The next hall keeps maps
and lists of ports. You trace a line from the
city to a narrow inlet marked with a dot. Notes
say the sand is pale there. Notes say the slope
of the shore is gentle and safe for small boats.
Another line runs to a harbor with sharp reefs near
the masts. A warning mark stands there. It is not
a symbol of fear. It is a symbol of care.
The elder touches the mark and says, the page remembers
the reef for those who have not seen it. You
imagine a pilot entering that harbor at dusk. You imagine
a light on a headland, and a quiet voice in
the mind of the pilot that repeats the warning. The
ship turns a little earlier than before. The night is uneventful.
The crew sleeps. You pass into a room where small
cabinets hold written cures and clean procedures. The air smells
faintly of crushed leaf and resin. A woman in a
linen wrap sets out bundles tied with narrow cords. She
opens one to check the leaves and smiles to herself.
She closes it and marks the tag in clean strokes.
The elder says nothing. He lets the scene speak. The
room says, the body can be guided toward balance. The
room says, the mind can be eased with order and
with rest. Your hands uncurl on their own. The elder
brings you at last to a quiet chamber, reserved for
reading and for thought without task. The chamber is simple,
a low table, a reed mat that does not slip
under your feet, a window high on the wall that
cuts a long bar of light across the floor. The
bar lies across the center of the room, as if
it had been placed there for you. A jar of
water stands on a small stand. A cup rests beside it.
You sit. The mat answers your weight with a soft sound.
The elder pours water and sets the cup near your hand.
He asks if the air feels right. You say yes,
without raising your voice. Unrolls a page that collects short
sayings on measure and calm, not a treatise, not a
poem simple statements that sit like smooth stones on a path.
One says that the sea rests even while it moves.
Another says that a long work is finished by short means,
repeated with care. Another says that the eyes need rooms
without clutter. Another says that a mind returns to ease
when it is given one thing to notice and to keep.
You read them, and you do not hurry between each.
You lift your eyes to the light on the floor
and let it be your one thing. Outside the small chamber,
someone walks past without sound. Then the sound of steps
returns in two soft notes as the person crosses the
next threshold. The building is full of rests, like those
in a long song. The rests give the notes their meaning.
You notice your own rests, the space between one breath
and the next, the moment when your chest pauses before
it falls. The room teaches you to like that pause.
The pause becomes the best part of the breath. The
elder speaks once more, and then lets the room do
the rest. He tells you that all these pages exist
so you can set your thinking down. He says, you
may place your thoughts here, as a guest places a
bundle by the door. He says the bundle will be safe.
He says you do not need to carry it to night.
He does not insist. He offers. The offer is enough.
You imagine a small bundle set by a doorway. It
is wrapped in light cloth. It is tied with a
simple knock. It will be in the morning if you
want it again. The image makes your shoulders drop one
more degree. Light shifts along the wall. The bar on
the floor slides and thins. The elder sets a lamp
on a bracket and shields it so the flame points down.
The room keeps its soft edges. Shadows settle in clean lines.
The window holds a piece of evening sky, the color
of cool stone rinsed in water. A breeze lifts once
and stops. You lift your cup and drink. The swallow
carries warmth through your chest. The warm slows and widens.
Your hands grow still where they rest. The elder steps
back toward the door and leaves it open by the
width of a hand. He says he will see to
one or two small duties and then return. He says
the chamber is yours. He does not give instructions, He
does not set rules. He trust the quiet. You sit
with the page open and the lamb steady. You read
a single line. Then you let your eyes close and
keep the line without words. When you open them, the
line is still there. When you close them again, the
line is only a feeling. The feeling is enough. You
picture the tower across the water. The fire will be tended,
the oil will be fresh, the lens will shine. The
beam will travel its long, calm path and touch wave
after wave with a coin of light. You picture the
streets below. Pools will hold the last colors. Cats will
claim squares of heat where stone remembers the day. Doors
will open to the inner light of small rooms. Someone
will lift a jug. Someone will set a loaf on
aboard and slice it with care. Work will be done
that does not ask for praise. The thought is RESTful.
Your eyelids grow heavier at the edges. The center stays clear.
You can keep it clear as long as you need.
You can let it soften when you are ready. The
water clock in the court below gives a soft note
as one cup reaches its measure. The note settles on
the sill and fades. The room accepts it and keep still.
You turn the page with a careful hand. The page
moves like cloth. It makes a low sound as it
slides to its new place. Your hand remains in the
air for a moment, and then comes to rest. The
elder returns and stands in the doorway. He does not speak.
He only checks the flame and lowers the shield another
finger to warm the color of the light. He leaves
the door as it is. He nods. You answer with
a smaller nod. Words would ask too much of your mouth.
He understands. He walks away, and the hall accepts his
steps and quiets them. You look at the light on
the floor, and then at the page. You breathe in,
you breathe out. You let the room hold the rest.
You stay in the quiet chamber. As evening gathers, the
lamp makes a soft circle. The linen at the high
window lifts and settles. The air grows cooler and kind.
The page before you waits without asking. Your hands grow
still on the table. Your breath finds an easy path.
The elder checks the wig and lowers the shield another finger.
The light warms and loses its edge. He sets a
small bowl of water near the jar. He sets a
folded cloth beside it. He says nothing. He nods once
and steps away. The door remains slightly open. The hall
takes his steps and smooths them. The room keeps its hush. Outside,
the courts drift toward dusk. The rill carries a thinner light.
The fig leaves turn their pale undersides to the breeze.
A guard adjusts his strap and then forgets to hold
his shoulders tight. A cloud closes a chest and rests
his palm on the lid for a quiet count. The
water clock continues. A drop leaves one cup. A note
answers in the next time passes as a gentle trade
between hands. You rest your eyes on the bar of
light that lies across the floor. The bar shortens and dims.
It slides toward the wall and becomes a cool band.
The lamb takes the work. Shadows draw clean line round
the table legs. The reed mat softens your feet. The
wood of the chair holds your hips and allows your
back to lengthen. Your mouth releases the last small work
of the day. Your jaw forgets the shape of effort.
Your tongue rests low and broad. Your breath is easy.
You turn the page only once more. The sheet moves
like warm cloth. The letters sit without asking you to
hold them. You let your gaze rest between lines. You
close your eyes and keep the feeling of the words
without the words themselves. You open your eyes and meet
the page again. Both ways are allowed. Both ways are quiet.
The breeze lifts the linen in a slow wave. It
brushes your forearm with air that has crossed stone and leaf.
It smells faintly of clean clay and a hint of resin.
Far below, a cat steps across a sill that still
holds a little of the heat of the day. The
cat sits and arranges its paws and does not look in.
You know that it is there by the shape of
its silence. The knowledge is pleasant. You imagine the tower
across the water, the fire tended by steady hands, the
lens bright and clear, the beam turning with patient measure,
A long path of light laid out upon the waves.
Somewhere a pilot marks a line between two points and
finds a safe course. He does not rush, he does
not guess. He allows the light to do its work.
He allows the sea to carry the hull in an
even body. You feel that same care in your chest.
A light to follow, a body that carries you. Picture
the long avenues of the city. Pools holding a last
glaze of color. Stones cooling and giving back their stored warmth.
Bread set on boards in small rooms. Wine poured with
a soft sound into a clay cup. A mother sets
a lamp where it will not glare. A father lifts
a sleeping child and places a folded cloth beneath a head.
Doors close with measured hands, locks turned without force. The
city does not fall asleep at once. It lowers itself.
It chooses comfort. You follow. You look again at the
small sayings near your hand. The elder chose them with care.
The sea rests even while it moves. A long work
is finished by short means, repeated with care. Eyes need
rooms without clutter. A mind returns to ease when it
is given one thing to notice and to keep. You
choose your one thing. It can be the breath at
the tip of the nose. It can be the rise
of the chest. It can be the fall. It can
be the faint sound of water somewhere below. Hold one,
let the others pass. There is no task here, only company.
You set your bundle by the door in your mind. Light, cloth,
simple knock. The bundle contains to day. It contains names.
It contains small sums and larger ones. It contains words
you spoke that you wish had been softer. It contains
words you did not speak, and can speak later if needed.
You place it down. You feel the small release in
your shoulders. You feel the skin of your face smooth.
You do not carry the bundle to night. It will
be safe where it rests. The elder returns once and
looks at the flame. He lowers the shield by a breath.
The room warms in color and dims in brightness. He
sets a finger on the rim of the jar to
feel the coolness of the water. He looks toward the
window and wreaths the sky for you. He nods. He
leaves the door as it is and steps away. The
chamber belongs to you now. It belongs to you, and
to the quiet. You breathe in, you breathe out. The
breath meets no corners, it meets no hard edges. It
finds a smooth path in and a smooth path out.
Your shoulders ride a small tide and return. Your ribs
widen and close. Your belly rises and falls. The breath
is the oldest rhythm. The water clock agrees. The drip
keeps time at a distance and leaves the space.
Speaker 2: Near you free.
Speaker 1: You let your attention move to points in the body,
like lights that dim in turn. The forehead cools and smooths.
The eyes sit heavy and comfortable. The corners the eye
eyes release, the cheeks soften, the jaw rests, the tongue drops.
The back of the neck lengthens. The tops of the
shoulders settle, as if someone had lifted a weight you'd
forgott when you were holding. The upper arms grow heavy
and warm. The elbows release, the forearms rest, the wrists loosen.
The hands give up their shape and become soft. Fingers
become still and warm. The chest widens on the inhale
and eases on the exhale. The upper back spreads and flattens.
The lower back lets go. The belly is soft and quiet.
The hips are heavy and safe. The thighs soften, the
knees rest, The shins grow still. The ankles loosen. The
feet feel the lat as a gentle shawl. The toes
are warm and quiet. The whole body lies within itself
like a harbor within its headland. The bee from the tower,
sweeps and returns. All is tended. You keep company with
three easy breaths, in through the nose, out through the nose,
again and again. You count them. If it helps, one, two, three,
then you stop counting and let the breath continue without you.
The breath can be trusted, The room can be trusted.
The night can be trusted. A memory of the day
passes and fades. The city at noon, the market, the
shining scales of fish, the clean sound of a loaf settling,
the cool edge of a fountain. You let the images pass,
like boats crossing the mouth of a bay. Each has
business elsewhere. None asks to dock here. They glide on.
The bay remains smooth. You think of the instruments you saw,
the disk that through a coin of lfe on the wall,
the cord with equal knots, the tube that brought far
to near. You use them now, without moving. You set
a soft coin of light on your breath. You measure
a calm distance between one thought and the next. You
bring the far shore of sleep near enough to step
onto without a leap. There is no rush. The shore
moves towards you as you move toward it. The meeting
is quiet. The last words of the elder still rest
in the chamber, not as sound as a shape in
the air. Every page in this place exists to hold
what you no longer need to hold. The page will
keep the measure. The shelf will keep the page. The
hall will keep the shelf. The city will keep the hall.
The tower will keep the city. The night will keep
the tower. You may let go. You may step back
from your thinking with the same courtesy you would show
a guest when the guest wishes to sleep. You dim
the lamp of the mind by a finger, then by another,
then by another. Your eyes close and open, with longer
spaces between the lashes. Meet for a moment, and separate.
The moments grow. You do not turn them into numbers.
You let them be lengths of quiet. The quiet gathers
like cool water at low tide. It finds every hollow
and leaves a level surface. Your breath writes a slow
line across that surface. The line does not need to
be read. It is enough that it is written outside.
The water clock tips its measure and pauses. A clerk
lifts the empty cup and sets it back in place.
The drip begins again. A cat chooses a darker sill.
The tower sends its beam across the inner h and
touches a war that you will not see until morning.
A pilot speaks in a low voice, and another pilot
answers in the same tone. Two lanterns blinking answer far
out on the water. Then all returns to steady signs.
You slide your chair back the smallest distance and rest
your forearms on the table. Your forehead lowers toward the
crook of your arm. The wood is warm where the
lamp has touched it. The warmth receives your skin. Your
eyes close, Your breath finds the shallow arc between sleep
and waking, and moves there without effort. Thoughts thin like
mist above a still pool. The pool keeps the sky
and needs no ripple. The chamber holds a safe dark.
The door stands as you left it. The jar waits
with water that will be cool in the morning. The
page will still be here if you wish it. The
bundle will still be by the door. The city will
be as you leave it. Now ordered patient kind, The
tower will turn, the waves will rise and fall. The
clock will count small gifts from one cut to the next.
You are not required to notice. You are allowed to rest.
You breathe in, you breathe out. Shoulders, heavy arms, walled jaw,
soft eyes, quiet breath, slow mind, light, body safe. The
room keeps watch, The library keeps your thoughts. The city
keeps the library. The tower keeps the city. The night
keeps the tower.
Speaker 2: You drift, you float, you sleep. U u.
Speaker 1: U u.
Speaker 2: U u u u u u.
Speaker 1: U u.
Speaker 2: U u.
Speaker 1: U u.
Speaker 2: U u u u u u u u