The Glass Palace in Hyde Park

You arrive in Hyde Park before sunrise, in the spring of 1851, and walk toward a building made almost entirely of glass. Inside, full-grown elm trees stand under a great arched roof, a fountain of cut glass falls softly at the crossing, and sparrows sing in the iron. You learn how a gardener drew the whole thing on blotting paper, how nearly three hundred thousand panes were set from little trolleys that ran along the gutters, and who will come through the doors when they open. Then rain begins on the roof.

The ending, given away now, per house rules: let your breathing go slow, and slow, and slower. There is nothing else to wait for, which is the point.

The first minute

Wherever you are as you listen to this, whatever the day has held, you can set it down now. It is over. It asks nothing more of you. Let your shoulders sink, away from your ears. Let the bed take your whole weight. There is nothing left for you to carry tonight. Let your hands grow soft. Let your jaw loosen. Let your breathing slow, all on its own, the way it does when nothing is expected of you. There is nothing here to watch for. Nothing to decide. Nothing you will need to remember in the morning. Tonight we…

Why this one works at night

Nothing to watch for and nothing to remember. Only a gardener watering the elms, sparrows in the roof, and rain beginning on the glass. The pace is slow, unhurried, and the whole of it is pale, glassy, hushed. Nothing in it asks to be followed closely, which is what makes it easy to let go of.

“…It was made by casting the glass in thick blocks, and then cutting the faces by hand on a wheel—”

The kind of sentence people fall asleep during