He calmed himself, shut his eyes, and fell asleep. The rear light of consciousness, like the last express train of the night, began to fade into the distance, gradually speeding up, growing smaller until it was, finally, sucked into the depths of night, where it disappeared. All that remained was the sound of the wind slipping through a stand of white birch trees.
Haruki Murakami, Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage
death, haruki-murakami, sleep