A Quiet Evening In Nairn: A Peaceful Highlands Sleep Story

Tonight, journey to the peaceful seaside town of Nairn in the Scottish Highlands, where long summer twilight lingers above the sea and the rhythm of life moves gently and unhurriedly. Wander along quiet beaches, follow heather-covered paths above the shoreline, watch fishing boats resting in the harbor at dusk, and return to a cozy cottage warmed by firelight and the distant sound of the waves. The Highlands have never been in a hurry.

Music: Ambient by Yauheni Kachan
Sounds: Ocean by Soundangel1111, Pixabay
Image: AI Generated

Transcript

Tonight, Journey to the peaceful seaside town of Nairn, In the Scottish Highlands, Where long summer twilight lingers above the sea and the rhythm of life moves gently and unhurriedly. Wander along quiet beaches? Follow heather-covered paths above a shoreline. Watch fishing boats resting in the harbor at dusk, And return to a cozy cottage warmed by firelight and the distant sound of the waves. This calming sleep story is designed to help you release the pace of the day, Settle your mind, And drift peacefully into rest beneath the stars of the highlands. You are listening to A Quiet Evening in Nairn. Welcome Friend, To the Whispering Willow. I'm Diana and I'm delighted to be the one whose voice will help you find sleep tonight. This story was created on the suggestion of a listener. We will be traveling somewhere soft and windswept, Where the sea meets the highlands, Where the air carries the scent of salt and heather, And the evening light lingers longer than expected. Tonight we are going to Nairn, A quiet seaside town in the Scottish Highlands, Resting along the Murray Firth, Where pale sand stretches beside cool northern waters, And the hills wait in the distance. Blue and green and dreamlike beneath the open sky. Tonight's story will help us learn to slow down and linger within the natural pace of life. There is no hurry here, No place you need to be, No task you need to finish, And no one asking anything of you. All that remains is the gentle rhythm of the shore. The soft movement of the wind. And the comforting sense that for tonight, You may simply arrive. So allow yourself to settle in wherever you are. Let your body be supported by the surface beneath you. Let your shoulders soften. Let your jaw loosen. And let your hands rest easily wherever they feel most comfortable to you. Close your eyes if that feels nice. Take one slow breath in and then let it go. Do this two more times. Breathing in deeply. And exhaling long and steady. Releasing all the tension and tightness of the day. And when you're ready. . . We will begin the story. As the world around you begins to quiet, You are arriving in the highlands near evening The train has carried you north. Through a landscape that seems to grow somehow gentler and wider at the same time. You pass green fields, Stone walls, Small villages, And faraway hills softened by mist. The sky is wide here, Wider than one would expect. A great, Open dome of silver-blue light, With slow-moving clouds drifting across it like folded wool. When the train eases into Nairn, The platform is quiet, The air is cool, And as you step down, The first thing you notice is the scent of the sea, Clean and fresh, Salted by the breeze and threaded with something green. Something earthy. Something that feels like rain resting in the grass. You pause for a moment on the platform holding your small bag at your side. There are only a few other travelers here. A couple speaking softly near the station door. Someone lifting a suitcase into the back of a waiting car. A bicycle leaning against a stone wall. Everything here feels peaceful, As though the town itself has taken a deep breath and is waiting for you to do the same. Outside the station, The streets are calm. The buildings are low and familiar looking. Stone and brick, Softened by years of weather and sea air. Window boxes spill with flowers. A few shop fronts glow warmly, Though the day is not dark yet. In the distance gulls call above the rooftops, Their voices carried on the wind from the shore. You follow the directions you were given down a narrow street, Past a small garden gate, Past a row of cottages with slate roofs and white trim. Toward the place where you will stay for the night. The road slopes gently as you walk, And though you cannot yet see the water, You can feel it nearby. But the air seems to move differently because of it. COOLER Thick with moisture, As though every breath has been washed clean before reaching you. You pass a little stone wall covered in moss, Then a wooden bench beside a patch of tall grass, Then a narrow lane where foxgloves grow in uneven clusters, Their soft purple bells nodding in the breeze. At the end of the lane stands the cottage. Small. Whitewashed. Set back behind a low garden wall. Its windows are deep-set and warmly lit, Though the curtains are still open to the evening. A blue door waits beneath a simple wooden lintel. Beside it, Lavender grows in a weathered pot. And along the wall, Climbing roses move gently against the stone. For a moment, You simply stand there, Looking at the cottage. It appears to be something out of a fairy tale, And you let yourself feel the quiet pleasure of arriving somewhere kind and simple. Somewhere prepared. Somewhere that seems to say you may rest here. A place that welcomes you graciously. A key waits beneath a small ceramic dish by the door, Just as the note said it would. You unlock the cottage and step inside. The air is warm and grating. There is the faint scent of wood smoke and clean linen, And something baking that has already cooled on the counter. The entryway is small with hooks for coats and a woven mat for muddy shoes. A pair of soft white slippers has been left neatly beside the door. And you smile at the thoughtfulness of the gesture. You slip off your shoes and feel the quiet relief of being indoors. Someplace soft and cozy. Someplace welcoming. The main room is simple and lovely, A low beamed ceiling, A small hearth set into the stone wall. A comfortable armchair near the window with thick and generous cushions. A sofa draped with a wool blanket in shades of cream and soft grey. On the table, A tray has been prepared for you, A small teapot, A cup, And a folded linen napkin. There is a slice of oat cake resting beneath a glass cover. And be sighted. You see a note written in careful handwriting. You pick it up and read. Welcome to Nairn. The sea is just beyond the dunes, The kettle is full, The fire is laid, And the evening is yours. The highlands have never been in a hurry. Some say the old hills teach patience to those who stay long enough to listen. Stay a while, And you may find yourself slowing too. You read the last line again, And something in you softens. Because perhaps that is exactly what you came here for. Not to do or see anything in particular, Though the highlands are unimaginably lovely. But simply to slow. To let the day loosen its hold. To let the sea keep time for you. To remember what it feels like to move gently through a place with nothing to prove. You set the note back on the table, Then walk to the window. From here you can see the garden first, A small path of pale stones, A patch of lavender, A few wind-bent grasses. And beyond the garden wall, The tops of the dunes. Just beyond them, The sea waits. You cannot see it fully yet. Only a line of silver light between the grass and sky. But you can hear it. A slow, Steady hush. Waves arriving. Waves leaving. Again and again. Without effort. Instinctively. The sound settles around the cottage like a warm blanket. You stand there for a while listening. Breathing. Letting the room become familiar. Letting your body understand that it has arrived. After a few moments, You fill the kettle and set it to warm. The small sounds of the cottage begin to gather around you. Water shifting inside the kettle. A spoon resting against China. The gentle creak of the floor beneath your feet. The faint tap of climbing roses against the windowpane. Outside, The light has begun to mellow and soften. The way northern evenings sometimes do, Stretching themselves out in long, Quiet layers. When the tea is ready, You pour it slowly. Steam rises in delicate ribbons. You carry the cup to the armchair by the window and sit down and breathe in its scent. You wrap both hands around the warm cup. And for the first time all day, Perhaps all week. You feel no need to move quickly. No need to reach for the next thing. No need to prepare for what comes after that. There is only this. The cottage. The tea. The distant hush of waves. The highlands breathing softly around you. And you settle in to the comfort and safety of this evening. After a while, You take a small bite of the oat cake. It is simple and lightly sweet, With the comforting taste of butter and oats. The kind of thing that seems made for quiet weather and warm kitchens. You sip your tea again. And as you sit there, You notice how the cottage holds silence differently than other places. This silence is not empty. It is full of small, Gentle things. The firewood waiting in the hearth. The blanket folded across the sofa. The soft grey sky beyond the glass. The cup warming your hands. The sea beyond the dunes. Keeping its steady rhythm. All of it seems to say the same thing. Rest now. You have arrived. A little later, When your tea is nearly finished, You rise from the chair and wander through the cottage. There is a small kitchen with blue cabinets and open shelves. You see a loaf of bread wrapped in a clean cloth, A jar of honey, And a little vase of wildflowers near the sink. The bedroom is tucked at the back of the cottage, Quiet and simple. In it you see a white iron bed, A thick quilt folded at the foot, A small lamp on a wooden bedside table, And a window that looks toward the dunes. The bed has already been turned down. The sheets look cool and clean. A folded night robe rests across the quilt. Everything is patiently waiting. You set your bag down near the wardrobe and take a moment to breathe in the room's calm. There will be time for sleep later, But not yet. The evening is still too lovely. The shore is calling softly beyond the dunes. So you return to the main room. Take your coat from the hook. Slip on your shoes, And step back outside. The air greets you like a cool hand against your cheek. Fresh, Quiet, And a little wild. You close the blue door gently behind you. Then follow the pale stone path through the garden gate, Toward the dunes, Toward the sound of the water. Toward the long, Unhurried evening, Waiting beside the sea. The path leading from the cottage is narrow and sandy. Tufts of grass sway gently on either side. Their long stems bend and rise with the breeze. The air carries the scent of the sea now. Cool and clean. You walk slowly. The evening seems to encourage a gentler pace. Each step, Sinking softly into the sandy path. Each breath arriving a little deeper than the one before. Ahead, The dunes begin to open. The grasses grow shorter. The sky expands. And then, Quite suddenly, The sea appears, Wide and silver blue, Stretching farther than the eye can comfortably follow. For a moment you simply stop to take in the feeling of space, Of openness, Of standing at the edge of something vast yet peaceful. The beach is nearly empty. A few distant figures stroll along the shoreline. Small silhouettes against the water. Far enough away that they seem almost part of the landscape. The tide is moving slowly, Each wave arriving with a quiet rush. Then slipping back into the sea once more. The sound is steady and comforting. A rhythm older than memory. You make your way down from the dunes and onto the sand. It is firm beneath your feet. Cool from the day's fading warmth. The beach stretches in both directions, A pale ribbon lying between sea and sky. You turn toward the west, Where the evening light glows softly behind the clouds. Gentle gold spreading across the horizon. The sort of light that seems to soften everything it touches. You walk beside the water, Close enough to hear every wave. The wind brushes against your coat. Lifting a strand of hair. Cooling your cheeks. There is something wonderfully simple about walking beside the sea. No destination, No schedule, No expectation. Just one step. And then another. The shoreline curves gently ahead. The endlessness of it feels comforting, As though you never need to worry about space running out. You notice small treasures scattered along the sand. When was the last time, You wonder, That you had time to notice small treasures? Smooth stones polished by the water. Tiny shells. Pieces of sea glass softened by years of waves. One piece catches your eye, A pale green fragment no larger than a coin. Its edges rounded and smooth. You pick it up, Holding it briefly in your palm. The glass glows softly when the light catches it. Transformed by years of patient movement. Years of being carried. Tumbled. Shaped by the sea. You wonder if people are sometimes shaped in much the same way. By time and experience. By all the days that carry them forward. The journey is not always gentle, Yet somehow, With patience, Even life's rough edges can become soft and beautiful. The thought lingers pleasantly as you slip the sea glass into your pocket. A small reminder of this evening. A small piece of shoreline to carry home with you. You continue walking. The goals drift overhead. Culling occasionally, Gliding on the wind. Their wings barely moving, As though they too have surrendered to the calm of the evening. And you find yourself wondering, As people often do, What it must feel like to glide upon the wind. Far out on the water you notice a fishing boat, Small against the horizon, Its white hull catching the fading light. It moves slowly, Leaving only the faintest wake behind it. Nothing here seems rushed. Not the waves. Not the birds. Not the clouds. Not even the boat. Everything moves at its own natural pace. The beach narrows slightly ahead. The line of smooth stones marks the edge of the dunes. You see Heather growing beyond them. Patches of purple scattered among the grasses. Small and resilient. Moving gently in the wind. You find a weathered driftwood log resting above the tide line. Its surface is worn smooth by years of weather. You brush away a bit of sand and sit for a while. The sea stretches before you, Endless and patient. The horizon blurs slightly where water and sky meet. As though the two have decided not to remain separate. You rest your hands in your lap and simply watch. The waves continue their quiet work, Arriving, Retreating, Returning again. Never hurried. And never delayed. Always exactly as they are. The longer you watch, The more difficult it becomes to think about anything else. Other thoughts no longer seem important, And they blur in your mind. The sea having gently reminded you that not every question needs an answer. Not every concern requires your attention. Not every unfinished task needs to be carried into each moment. For now there is only the water, The breeze, The steady rhythm of evening. You sit there for a long while. Long enough for your breathing to naturally match the rhythm of the waves. A slow breath in. And a slow breath out. At some point, You realize you have become wonderfully comfortable. Not sleepy, Just settled. As though some part of you that has been busy for a very long time has finally decided to rest. Eventually, You rise from the driftwood log. The evening continues to unfold around you. The sky grows softer and the light becomes more delicate yet. Ahead, A narrow path winds upward through the dunes, Climbing gently toward the higher ground beyond the beach. You can see patches of purple heather scattered along the hillside. The path looks inviting. A quiet trail leading toward a different view of the evening. You slip your hands into your pockets. Feeling the smooth piece of sea glass resting there. Then turn toward the path. Ready to discover what waits among the heather-covered hills above Nairn. And as you begin the gentle climb, The sound of the wave follows behind you. Soft, Steady. Faithful, As though the sea itself is reminding you it will be waiting when you return. The path rises gradually from the beach, Not steep enough to tire you, Just enough to lift you above the shoreline. The sand gives way to packed earth, The earth gives way to grass, And soon you find yourself walking through a landscape that feels older somehow, As though it has been patiently watching the seasons pass for hundreds of years. The breeze follows you up the hillside, Carrying with it the distant scent of the sea, Reminding you it is still present, Still watching. Behind you, The water stretches wide and silver beneath the evening sky. Ahead, The highlands begin to unfold. Rolling hills, Open fields, Stone walls tracing the contours of the land. The path narrows as it continues. Local stories say that certain highland paths have been walked for so long that they remember every traveler, Not in footprints, Not in names, But in the feeling of welcome they offer. Heather grows on either side, Its tiny purple blossoms moving in the breeze. They're color-rich and muted at the same time. Quietly beautiful. You brush your fingers across a cluster as you pass. The blooms sway gently beneath your touch, Then return to their place among the grasses. A skylark sings somewhere overhead, Its song distant. Nearly hidden by the wind. You pause and listen more carefully. For a moment, The melody seems to float above everything else. A small thread of music woven into the evening. Then it fades once more. Leaving only the breeze. The path bends around a low rise, And suddenly the view opens. You stop instinctively. Below, Nairn rests quietly beside the water, Its rooftops catching the last day's light. The harbor visible in the distance, The beach curving along the shoreline. And beyond it all. The murray firth glows softly beneath the evening sky, Silver near the shore, Blue farther out, The colors shifting and blending together. Above it clouds drift slowly westward, Their undersides touched with pale gold. The highlands have a way of making everything feel spacious. Not only the land. But the mind as well. The farther your gaze travels, The quieter your thoughts seem to become. The open sky. The distant hills. The endless sea. They work together to create room to breathe. Room to rest. Room to simply be. After a few moments, You continue along the path. The evening grows calmer with each step. Ahead a small flock of sheep grazes among the grasses. Their wooly coats glowing softly in the fading light. They barely glance up as you approach. Simply continuing their evening meal. One lifts its head briefly, Watching you with mild curiosity, Then returns to grazing. The sight makes you smile. There is something comforting about their confidence that all is well. That the grass is plentiful, That the evening is kind, That there is nowhere else they need to be. You walk on, Following the winding trail as it moves gently through the heather. At times the path is little more than two faint tracks through the grass. At others it widens enough to reveal patches of smooth stone beneath your feet. Near the crest of one gentle rise stands a solitary stone, Weathered by centuries of wind and rain, Its surface softened by time, Its shape simple against the open sky. Local stories differ. Some say it marked an ancient path through the highlands. Others believe it served as a meeting place long ago. Most seem content simply to let it remain a mystery. You pause for a moment beside it. The stone feels perfectly at home here, As though it has spent centuries watching clouds drift overhead, Watching heather bloom and fade. Watching travelers pass through the landscape below. Eventually, You come upon an old stone wall. It too is weathered by countless seasons, Its stones covered in patches of pale green moss. Tiny ferns grow from the gaps between them, Their delicate fronds unfolding toward the light. You rest your hand briefly against the wall. The stone is cool beneath your palm, Solid, And steady. It has stood here through rain and wind. Through summer and winter. Through countless evenings just like this one, Watching the clouds drift overhead, Watching the heather bloom and fade. Watching the seasons come and go. There is comfort in that kind of permanence. A reminder that not everything changes. Some things remain. Quietly. Yet. Faithfully. You follow the wall for a while. Eventually, The path leads you to a small wooden bench, Simple and weathered. Positioned perfectly to overlook both the sea and the town below. You take a seat. The wood still holds a trace of warmth from the afternoon sun. The view stretches before you vast and beautiful, Peaceful. The evening light has changed again. The gold has faded completely now, Leaving shades of pearl and lavender. The sea reflects those colors softly, As though it is gathering the sky into itself. A few lights have begun to appear now in Narn below. Warm squares glowing from cottage windows. Tiny points of light scattered among the streets. The first sign of evening settling over the town. You imagine people preparing for supper, Lighting lamps, Pouring tea, Closing garden gates, Laughing quietly. Simple rituals repeated every evening. Comforting in their familiarity. What the thought makes you think of the cottage waiting for you? The little blue door, The armchair by the window, The folded blanket, The hearth prepared for a fire. Though you are not ready to return just yet, It feels nice knowing it is there waiting for you. You lean back against the bench. The breeze brushes gently across your face. Cooler now. The sort of coolness that invites warmth. A blanket, A fire, A cup of tea. You rise slowly from the bench, Taking one last look across the sea. One last look across the heather-covered hills. Then you turn back toward the path. Following it gently downhill. As you make your way down from the hillside, The path curves gently toward town. The heather remains beside you for a while. Purple blossoms moving softly in the breeze. The sea visible beyond them. Silver beneath the evening sky. You pause at the edge of the harbor wall, Looking out across the boats. There is an old saying along this coastline that the sea keeps stories. Not every story, Only the ones worth remembering. Some believe these stories return to shore from time to time, Smoothed and softened by years upon the water, Much like the sea glass resting in your pocket. Looking across the harbor now, It feels easy to understand why it endured. Nearby, A rope creaks softly against a wooden post, A gentle sound, Rhythmic and unhurried. The tide lifts the boat, Then lowers it again. The sound blending naturally with the distant murmur of the sea. Somewhere farther along the harbor, A small bell rings once. Then falls silent. The note lingers in the air, Gentle and clear. Then gradually fades, Leaving only stillness behind. You close your eyes for a moment, Listening. The water touching the harbor wall. The faint creak of wood. The whisper of the breeze. The distant sea beyond the harbor. A collection of gentle sounds and peaceful rhythms. The sort of sounds that seem to smooth away all of the sharp edges of the day. When you open your eyes again, The harbor has grown darker, The lights brighter, The reflections richer, Night drawing steadily closer. You know, The cottage waits for you. The fire waiting to be lit, The kettle waiting to be warmed. The armchair waiting beside the window. And suddenly, The thought feels very inviting. Because the evening has reached that perfect moment when returning home feels as pleasant as wandering. The path leads you gently back toward the town. The sea remains visible through gaps in the dunes. A quiet ribbon of silver beneath the evening light. The breeze follows beside you as you walk, Fresh and clean. As you reach the garden gate, You pause for a moment, Looking back toward the dunes, Listening Let the waves continue their endless conversation with the shore. The sound feels familiar now, As though it has become a part of the evening, Part of you. You smile softly, Then open the gate and follow the stone path through the garden. The lavender brushes gently against your leg as you pass. The climbing roses move quietly in the breeze. Ahead, The blue door glows warmly beneath the porch light. You step inside and immediately feel the difference. The cool air of the evening remains outside. The cottage welcomes you with warmth. Gentle comfort that seems to gather around you like an embrace. You remove your coat, Hang it on the hook beside the door, And slip once more into the soft slippers waiting by the mat. The simple act feels surprisingly pleasant. A small ritual of returning. A signal that the evening has entered a quieter chapter. The room is exactly as you left it. The armchair beside the window. The blanket folded neatly across the sofa. The little tray on the table. The note still resting beside the teapot. Everything feels calm and still. You move toward the hearth, A basket of firewood waits nearby alongside neatly arranged kindling. Someone has prepared everything carefully. You kneel and place a few pieces of kindling inside, Then a couple of logs. The motions are simple. Comforting in their familiarity. When the match is struck, The flame flares briefly, Golden and bright, Then settles. The kindling catches first, A tiny crackle, A faint glow. Then the fire begins to grow slowly and patiently as the flames find their rhythm. You settle back on your heels and watch. There is something mesmerizing about a fire, You think. The way it moves. The way it shifts. Never still. Never rushed. The flames curl around the wood, Casting warm light across the stone hearths. And the room immediately feels cozier, The shadows softer, The evening gentler. You remain there for a few moments, Listening to the crackling wood. Watching the fire settle into itself. Then you rise and make your way into the kitchen. The kettle still rests on the stove. You fill it once more, Listening to the water splash softly inside. Nearby the loaf of bread remains wrapped in its cloth. The honey catches the firelight in its glass jar. The wildflowers by the window stand quietly in their vase. Everything feels peaceful. Ordinary in the best possible way. You place the kettle on the stove, Then lean lightly against the counter while it warms. The pace of the evening washes over you, And you sigh deeply. The kettle begins to hum. Then quietly sing, A soft rising note that fills the kitchen. You prepare another cup of tea, Pouring the steaming water carefully, Watching the leaves swirl and settle. A spoonful of honey, Golden and sweet, Dissolves slowly into the warmth. You carry the cup into the main room, Along with a slice of bread. The fire greets you with its gentle glow. Its warmth already spreading through the cottage. You settle into the armchair by the window, A blanket drawn loosely across your lap. The tea warming your hands. And for a long moment, You simply sit, Listening. Let the fire crackle softly. The waves whisper beyond the dunes. Occasionally the wind brushes against the windowpane. But there is nothing more. No demands. No interruptions. Just the sounds of evening settling around you. You take a sip of tea. The warmth spreads pleasantly through your chest. But the Highlands seem especially magical at this hour because of their quietness, Their willingness to simply be. The hills do not demand attention. The sea does not perform. The night unfolds without spectacle. You think again about the note left on the table. The Highlands have never been in a hurry. The words return gently. A quiet reminder. Perhaps that is part of what makes this place feel different. Nothing here seems eager to rush toward the next thing. The sea arrives one wave at a time. The clouds drift at their own pace. The heather blooms when it is ready. The stars appear one by one. And the evening unfolds exactly as it wishes. You lean back deeper into the chair. The blanket soft against her legs, The fire warming the room. The tea nearly finished now. A pleasant heaviness begins to settle into your body. The sweet exhaustion you feel after a day well spent, When there's nothing left to accomplish Nothing left to organize or carry. For a long while you remain exactly where you are. Curl comfortably in the armchair. The blanket resting across your lap. The fire glowing softly in the heart. Outside, The night continues its slow transformation. The long day has begun to drift away. The evening has given you exactly what it promised. A chance to slow down. And rest. A chance to remember how peaceful it can feel to move through the world without rushing. The fire is now a bed of glowing embers. Its gentle warmth filling the cottage. A warmth that seems to settle into the walls, Into the furniture. Into the quiet spaces between things. You rise from the chair, Your eyes quite heavy now. You fold the blanket carefully, Resting it across the arm of the chair, Then pause for a moment beside the window. Outside the highlands sleep beneath the stars. The dunes rest quietly beyond the garden. The sea glimmers faintly beneath the moon. The cottages of Nairn are dark now, Most windows softly lit or already asleep. The village has settled beneath the night. You look out one final time. Taking in the peaceful view. Then you turn away. Carrying that calm with you. At the bedroom door, You pause. The room beyond weights exactly as you left it. Moonlight spills softly across the floor. Silver light resting upon the quilt. The white iron bed glows faintly in the darkness. The windows stand slightly open. Just enough to allow the cool highland air to drift inside along with the distant sound of the sea. The waves are quieter here. Farther away. Yet still present. Still Steady. You pull back the quilt. Its weight feels comforting. Substantial yet soft. You settle beneath it. Stretching out completely. The mattress welcoming you. Let the pillow cool beneath your head. A pleasant warmth surrounding you. Safety. Comfort. Ease. You close your eyes, And immediately the evening begins to replay itself in gentle impressions drifting across your mind. Each image appearing softly, Then drifting away like clouds crossing the sky. There is no need to hold on to them. The sound of the sea reaches you faintly through the open window. One soft hush. Within another. Natural. Consistent. The quilt feels warm. Your body growing heavier with each passing moment. The pleasant heaviness of sleep. The kind that arrives when there is nowhere else to be. Nothing left to do. Nothing left to carry. You imagine the highlands sleeping around you now. The heather resting quietly. The sheep tucked safely among the grasses. The harbor still beneath the stars. Everything calm. Everything settled. Everything a part of you now. You are wonderfully distant from the busyness of the world. And now as sleep draws closer, You find yourself slowing down. Like the highlands. Your thoughts becoming quieter. Your breathing becoming softer. Your body sinking deeply into the mattress. The stars shine above you. The cottage rests beneath the night. And you rest within the cottage The moon climbs a little higher above the sea. The night deepens around the town. Everything settling? Everything resting. Guiding you deeper. And his sleep.