The older my cat gets, the more he craves routine. He wants everything to happen at the right time, in the right order. He'll cry outside my bedroom door if I sleep in, like some kind of furry alarm clock. And feeding him has to happen first thing each morning. If I forget, he sits by his empty bowl and stares at me with this look of complete betrayal. I get it though.I like routine too. It's comforting. And it genuinely helps with sleep. When you follow the same patterns each night, dimming the lights at the same time, doing the same calming activities, your body starts to recognize these cues. Your brain begins releasing melatonin. Your heart rate slows. And your nervous system downshifts into rest mode. But routines do something else for us too. They make us feel safe. When everything unfolds in the same order, night after night, our nervous systems relax. Tonight I want to take you to a place where routine has been perfected into an art form. A grand hotel in Vienna, where everything runs like beautiful clockwork. Where you're cared for. Where every detail has been attended to with the same quiet precision for a hundred years. This hotel isn't real, although it is based partly on a hotel I stayed at once in Prague. And I slept there very well. So I'm hoping this hotel, the one I've imagined for you tonight, will do the same thing. Because this narration is designed to guide you into deep, natural sleep. The rhythm, the repetition, the unhurried pace, they all work together to help your mind let go. But first, the usual reminder, this episode contains hypnotherapy elements and relaxation techniques. So please don't listen anywhere you need to stay alert. Make sure you're tucked into bed, comfortable, and ready to drift off. And I wanted to take just a quick moment to thank all of you who follow the show. This podcast is definitely not part of some big media empire, unless you count me and Max the Cat as a media empire. It's been so gratifying to watch this little community grow. And every new follower, every nice message, they all tell me we're doing something that matters. So, thank you. And let's begin by settling into this moment. Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose, and then breathe out, letting all that air blow away. Let's do that one more time. Breathe in deeply, feeling your chest and your belly rise, and then exhale, releasing everything you've been holding. And as you continue to lie here, breathing naturally, I want you to use your imagination and imagine that far beneath your bed, deep in the earth itself, there's a giant magnet. But this magnet doesn't pull at your body. It pulls at everything you don't need anymore. Every tight muscle, every worried thought, every bit of heaviness you've been carrying. Feel this magnetic pull beginning at the back of your head, where it rests against your pillow. Your head grows heavier as the tension leaves. The weight that remains is just a good way of deep relaxation. Your head sinks deeper into your pillow, and it feels so much better. The pull spreads to your shoulders now. This is where so many of us hold the day's burdens. Feel the magnet reaching up and pulling all of that down and out. The magnetic pull moves through your chest and your back. If you've been holding anxiety there, that tight feeling in your chest, feel the magnet drawing it downward. Your breathing deepens and becomes easier as this happens. The weight of your day is literally leaving your body. Feel it in your hips now, that gentle downward pull, drawing out any tension from sitting, from standing, from moving through your busy day. Your legs are next. Feel the magnet pulling strain and tiredness from your thighs, your knees, your calves. All that tension from carrying you around all day is being drawn down and out, absorbed by the earth beneath you. And as all that tension, all that stress, every uncomfortable thing gets pulled down and away from you, you feel so much lighter, calmer, better, so much better. And as your body settles into this complete relaxation, I want you to focus entirely on my voice. Let my words become the only thing that matters. Let each word draw you further down, further towards sleep. You're completely safe, completely relaxed, and ready now to follow me into this beautiful hotel where sleep comes easily, like the most inevitable thing in the world. It's three o'clock in the morning in Vienna, and the city has finally fallen, completely silent. The last tram passed an hour ago, its bells fading into the distance. And now there's only the soft patter of rain on empty streets. The cobblestones glisten like black mirrors, each one holding a perfect reflection of the street lamps above on a quiet square just off the Ringstrasse. The Imperial Hotel stands like a sleeping palace, six stories of cream-colored limestone. The windows glow softly from within, not bright, just a warm suggestion of light through heavy curtains. Iron balconies curve from each window like musical notes. The railings beaded with raindrops that catch the streetlight and hold it at the entrance beneath a dark green awning. A doorman stands in the shadows. His eyelids are heavy, though he'd never admit it. His uniform is perfect, brass buttons gleaming, even in the dim light. But he leans slightly against the marble column, letting it take some of his weight. The revolving door behind him is still, its brass fixtures foggy with the night's moisture. The street itself is a river of black silk, disturbed only by the rain. But let's push through the revolving door, which whispers as it turns, releasing us into the lobby. The lobby stretches ahead, a cavern of marble, but only by table lamps that create pools of golden light. The main chandelier has been dimmed to almost nothing. The reception desk, carved from a single piece of mahogany, gleams like dark water. Behind it, room keys hang on brass hooks, each one with a silk tassel, burgundy for the standard rooms, ivory for the suites, and gold for the penthouse. The furniture, velvet sofas and leather chairs arranged in intimate groupings, sits empty, but still holds the slight impression of the day's guests. A forgotten newspaper lies folded on a side table. Yesterday's news, already aging into history. The air smells of beeswax polish, and the faintest suggestion of last evening's cigars from the smoking room. Somewhere, perhaps from the heating system or the building itself settling, comes a gentle sigh, as if the hotel is breathing in its sleep, but to truly understand this place at night, we descend to its working heart, taking the service elevator down to the basement. A different world, entirely. Here, the ceilings are ancient vaulted stone, part of wine cellars that have existed since medieval times. Three industrial dryers tumble in endless rotation. Steam rises from the machines and condenses on the old stones, occasionally dripping with a soft blink into channels carved centuries ago. The heat has made these walls warm to the touch, and in this warmth, everything feels softened, dreamlike. Along one wall, sheets that have already been pressed lie in perfect stacks on wooden shelves. The pressing station stands empty now, but we can see where the night shift left off. A half-finished stack of napkins, each one bearing the hotel's crest in white-on-white embroidery. In the linen storage room, where tablecloths the size of sails hang from wooden rods and towers of towels rise like white architecture, each one folded into precise thirds, the silence here is complete, except for the dryer's distant rumble and the occasional tick of cooling metal. Up the narrow service stairs, worn into smooth valleys by a century of footsteps, is the kitchen level. The kitchen at 3 a.m. belongs to one person, the night baker. He works alone in a pool of light at the marble counter, his hands pushing and folding dough in an ancient rhythm. He's making tomorrow's kaiserzimmel, those perfect five-pointed rolls that will appear on breakfast tables. Each one must be shaped by hand, a spiraling motion that creates the distinctive pattern. The baker works in near silence, only the soft slap of dough against marble and the whisper of flour being scattered around him. The kitchen sleeps. The great range is cold. The prep stations cleared and sanitized, the copper pots and pans hanging from their hooks. In the pastry kitchen, visible through a glass wall, tomorrow's desserts wait under glass domes. A wedding cake stands in tears, covered in hundreds of buttercream roses. Sheets of strudel dough stretched so thin you could read through them lie between parchment paper. Everything waits in readiness. Through the kitchen's swinging doors, we find crystal glasses in rows, each one polished to invisibility. Champagne flues, wine glasses, and brandy snifters that catch and concentrate the light. The silverware has been sorted into felt drawers, fish forks with their distinctive shape, soup spoons deep as small boats, butter knives with the hotel crest worn smooth by decades of handling. At the library bar, on the mezzanine level, the bartender has left everything in perfect readiness. The bottles behind the bar glow, lit from below. Each bottle stands at attention, whiskeys arranged by age, gins by country of origin, liqueurs like liquid jewels in their strange bottles. The bar top has been wiped with lemon oil. Its surface clouded from a century's patina. Like looking into an old mirror, a forgotten drink sits at the bar's end, the ice long melted, creating rings that will be polished away tomorrow. On the fourth floor is the ballroom. A single janitor works in the vast space, pushing a waxing machine in huge, slow circles across the parquet floor. The machine hums at a frequency that seems to resonate in the chest, and the scent of beeswax and lemon fills the air. He's been doing this twice a week for decades, always the same pattern, starting from the outside and spiraling inward. Forty-three complete rotations to cover the entire floor. The floor beneath his machine glows. Each piece of wood has been placed by hand in a pattern that radiates from the room's center. As he moves, the three chandeliers above sway almost imperceptibly. They're crystals creating a soft tinkling, like distant wind chimes. Down another level, accessed by a different staircase, the pool area at night is a cathedral of water and light. The underwater lights are the only illumination creating moving patterns on the ceiling. The water is perfectly still. The air is heavy with chlorine and eucalyptus from the adjoining spa. Every hour, a small pump releases a measured amount of clarifier into the water, creating ripples that expand outward in perfect circles, reaching the edges and returning, smaller and smaller, until the water is glass again. On the guest floors, the hallways here are carpeted in wool so thick that footsteps simply disappear. The carpet is burgundy with a pattern of golden keys that seem to shift.in the dim light. The ice machines hum at the end of each corridor, occasionally releasing a tumble of new cubes that sounds like distant applause. The emergency exit signs glow green, and somewhere a clock ticks. I'm Suzanne. This is your ticket to snoozeville. Sleep now.Sleep deeply. Sleep well.

In the Presidential Suite, though no one stays there tonight, the evening turndown has still been performed. The curtains drawn, the lights dimmed to a golden glow, the radio tuned to a classical station at the lowest possible volume - Chopin nocturnes threading through the empty rooms. The windows are cracked just slightly, letting in the rain-cooled air and the faint sound of water running off the gutters.

Through those windows, Vienna spreads out like a map of lights - the Danube a dark ribbon, the hills beyond the city dotted with single lights from houses where someone else can't sleep. The rain has softened everything, made it impressionistic, like looking at the city through tears or dreams.

Down through the floors where guests lie sleeping in their beds, unaware of all the quiet industry around them. They rest under duvets filled with down so light it seems to float above them. Their rooms are cocoons of perfect climate, with just enough air movement to keep the atmosphere fresh. The pillows support their heads with impossible softness. All of them breathe deeply, regularly, trusting completely in the hotel's embrace.

The hotel itself seems to breathe around its sleeping guests, its old bones settling with small sighs. It has stood here for a hundred years, through wars and celebrations, through ordinary nights and extraordinary ones. The hotel holds its dreamers like a ship holds its passengers, safely through the dark hours until morning comes again.

The rain continues to fall, straight and gentle, washing the city clean for tomorrow. The streetlights still burn, creating their golden pools on the wet streets. The doorman still stands beneath his awning, his breathing deep and regular now, almost asleep on his feet.

Inside, in room after room, the guests sleep on, trusting without thinking about it that when they wake, everything will be perfect. The coffee will be hot, the rolls will be fresh, the newspapers will be ironed, the floors will gleam. 

You've wandered through every floor of this beautiful hotel now, watching its perfect routines unfold in the darkness. And perhaps, in the back of your mind, you're already thinking about your own routines. The small rituals you might create for yourself.These don't have to be elaborate—the hotel's routines are beautiful because they're consistent, not complicated. In the days ahead, you'll find yourself naturally drawn to create these gentle patterns. Small steps. 

And right now, just enjoy the feeling of being in your own bed. How your mattress seems to cradle you, as if it's learned the exact shape of your body. Notice the weight of your blankets—not too heavy, not too light—creating that same comfort you felt imagining the Grand Hotel's down duvets. You are held. You are safe. 

Your breathing has found its sleep rhythm. Your heartbeat has quieted to its resting pace. Every muscle in your body has released its hold. There's a heaviness in your limbs, that wonderful sensation that tells you sleep is very close. Your thoughts are growing softer around the edges, less distinct, like watching the lights of the hotel dim.

Tomorrow, life will ask things of you again. There will be decisions to make and tasks to complete. But tonight, you can rest. Your body knows how to do this. Like the hotel's old systems that hum and tick through the night, your body has its own ancient rhythms, its own reliable patterns. Trust them now. Let sleep arrive in its own perfect time, as inevitable as morning, as natural as breathing.