Fall asleep with Henrik

Hi, I’m Henrik. And this is Fall Asleep with Henrik . This is a podcast where I talk for about an hour in each episode. I don’t use a script, and I don’t edit anything out. I just speak into the microphone, letting my thoughts wander, with the simple intention of helping you fall asleep. Sometimes I talk about memories. Sometimes about everyday things. Sometimes about serious topics, strange ideas...

Hi Sleepy. Tonight I’m talking from a room that’s almost been swallowed by snow. Somewhere outside, Stockholm is doing what it does when it remembers winter. From there my thoughts drift to old films, Hollywood habits, guns that always need to be looked at, villains who talk to aquariums, and why people in movies never behave like real humans in danger. We wander through The Mission , bad dialogue...

Hi Sleepy. Tonight I sit in my living room while Stockholm freezes quietly outside. The moon keeps doing what it’s always done, showing us the same face it showed dinosaurs, emperors, saints, and people who never slept well either. I drift between craters, old police non-events, Antarctica fantasies, places I’ll never go, and the strange comfort of shelters in hostile worlds. Nothing is planned. N...

Hi Sleepy. This episode begins in a living room with a plastic Christmas tree that has done its job and is now just standing there. From there, I wander through crowded warehouse stores, grocery aisles, guilt, scale, stars, microorganisms, language mistakes, and the strange comfort of knowing that the information that divides cells in you is ancient and uninterrupted. It’s a quiet, drifting episod...

Hi, Sleepy. Tonight we start in “the benigning” with my Swedish-English tongue and the fear of not having enough words, and somehow end up in a forest with an axe, my dad, and the old intrusive thought that maybe I’m secretly a monster. On the way there we invent a terrible podcast called “Grunts from the Gym,” complain about heavy breathing strangers, and sneak into a Pilates class… standing in t...

Christmas is around the corner of time, Sleepy, and we are standing in the doorway not really knowing if we want to go in or not. In this episode we drift off together through gingerbread pigs that shatter on hallway floors, storm nights on snow covered fields, plastic Jeeps with detachable men, and the strange ache of all the last times we never knew were last times. It is a quiet, slightly crook...

Hi Sleepy. Tonight we drift between a rainy city and old memories of Gothenburg. A frozen Jack staring from the Atlantic, a young acting student walking through a park everyone says is dangerous, a mad man on a tram who never quite becomes as dangerous as he sounds. Somewhere in there is a naked man in the shower screaming “hooray” at a fallen razor, a lifetime of being scared of his own mind, and...

Sleepy, tonight we walk that strange hallway that is not really there yet. I talk about not knowing, about the rooms we were never in, about my parents in a corridor that my mind keeps borrowing from my old school, and about how much of life is just guessing and filling in the gaps. There is destiny and no destiny, being 50 and in free fall, the old bullying scars and the golden moment when someon...

You fall into this one right in the middle of a life passage, Sleepy. We start in the big white room with no walls, where there is no blueprint for how to live, only this strange job of talking into a microphone so that other humans can fall asleep. From there it drifts into roosters who only want to fight, 80s school computers asking if you want to “get to harmony,” and a whole swarm of siblings...

Rain on the roof of Adventure Wolf, and inside: me, you, and a slow blue longing that refuses to have a name. We follow it anyway, through foggy moorland, over a childhood beach, into the black water and out among pine roots and beautiful decay. I mumble Latin, mispronounce clouds, nearly fall asleep mid-sentence, and confess my synthwave tears. Also: one brief detour into the ancient comedy of fa...

Rain drums on Adventure Wolf and I ramble happily, Sleepy, about clacky buttons in a galaxy far, far away, why moose trigger automatic doors, a speed-camera that fines ducks (in spirit), and the strange economy of “free.” We drift from speech therapists to Tudor headaches, from winter darkness to the quiet relief of naming anxiety “blocking.” And then the water, ancient, shared, ours, passes throu...

Hi, Sleepy. Tonight we try a small and slightly ridiculous experiment: you say “hi” back, and somehow I hear you anyway. We wander through painted reality, peel a corner, and glimpse the backstage where nothing is dangerous, at least for a few micro-seconds at a time. A houseplant becomes pain (harmless in its pot), a dragon suit becomes a memory of feeling invisible, and a lion in the bushes poli...

Hi, Sleepy. Tonight we tumble straight into the soft chaos: gratitude letters from everywhere, the strange art of being personal-not-private, and why “content creator” sounds like a label on an empty jar. We circle around presidents paying for burgers, detour by Elvis (don’t worry), and then land in a sweaty body-pump class where a 50-year-old Swede forgets how heavy ten kilos get after forty reps...

Hi, Sleepy. Tonight I begin with a black t-shirt and a forest that insists it’s a ballroom. We wade into the dark pond of starting—awkward at first, then quietly inevitable. I whisper little unimportant truths (the best kind), invent hidden worlds on top of air-ducts, and point out a troll behind a birch just to keep the ordinary honest. We talk about fear—cellar-door fear—and the moment you slam...

A sun-splashed motorway, The Killers on repeat, one hand on the wheel and one small tear of relief—then we tumble, softly, into an alternate city where poems buy blankets and conversation pays for lunch. Your guide hums by your ear, pigeons approve this silence, and a blue gate dissolves into fog while we practice the art of lane-changing without panic. Nothing to fix, only to notice. Let go, drif...

Hi, Sleepy. Tonight I record with a camera staring back and a desk lamp pretending to be the sun. We wander from “ugly days” and nameless feelings to a pocket-list of fears (being unloved, losing the thread) and a shy wish for an embrace that actually lands. Stockholm drifts by in autumn colors; Antarctica glitters at the horizon; the anger engine sputters and we swap it for aim. It’s an introspec...

Hi, Sleepy. Tonight we practice the tender art of doing nothing without giving up. We float between two kinds of inaction — the gentle pause that lets you drift off to sleep, and the frozen moment where choice feels like a tiny, sharp point. From there we wander: gratitude letters from Sydney to Naples, the strange party where everyone talks about you and you try not to wave, and a ghost-story fro...

Hi, Sleepy. Tonight I’m the hat that won’t come off and the sigh that finally settles. We wander from my daughter’s Friday-breath of relief to a prairie of 900 million cows, a horse named Barbara who can sing the herd into neat little lines, and the dizzy kindness of work—the kind that bends backs and hearts and still asks for more. We listen for sand that sings, tip our hat to saints with thorny...

Hi, Sleepy. Tonight we dig where we stand—heels in the soil, head in the constellations. From a quantum shiver under our feet to a secret cave in the mind, we wander through dream-workshops where ponies deflate with comic dignity and a shaggy little creature eats a balloon behind a popcorn stall. We wonder if dreams are solitary janitors or communal rivers, if cores are gilded or just waves, and w...

Hi, Sleepy. Tonight we drift through memory like a midnight train—rattling carriages of rain on the Adventure Wolf roof, a not-quite-Luke hero tugging us forward, and a cottage where blue cheese grew in the breadbox like a tiny forest. We visit old windows with yellow curtains, recite war verses that don’t quite fit a five-year-old, and meet the faces that made us—grandmothers, grandfathers, and t...

Hi Sleepy. This one drifts like an unnecessary car ride into town that turns into coffee left unfinished. From there we tumble back to 2006—binders full of tour dates, whispered phone calls with elk hunters named Kurt (or was it Koot?), and four people in a forest of 500 empty chairs, half of them heckling. Out comes Mr. Green Branch in his too-tight green suit, a grumpy caterpillar refusing chang...

Hi, Sleepy. Tonight I drift through mirrors—my own face in the TV screen, the cold studio air, the autumn leaves scratching outside, and the eyes of my parents, now fragile and still somehow ocean-sized. I talk about self-doubt, about calling myself ugly and then swearing, in a forest, to never do it again. I tell you about driving my parents through the towns where they once fell in love, about b...

Hello, Sleepy. Tonight we wander into snow and silence, into a lonely cabin where a map maker hides from the world, and a girl named Maya knocks on his door. You’ll hear boots crunching through icy forests, the stillness of a man who hasn’t spoken in decades, and the flicker of impossible maps — rivers flowing into clouds, forests made of glass, and secret tunnels that stretch under Europe. It’s a...

Hi, Sleepy. Tonight, I stumble into a story about watery vegetable soup, forbidden teenage love, and a dog named M who pinned me to a leather sofa with his smelly breath and fifty kilos of stubbornness. From there, we drift to wrinkled birthday balloons, the sad fate of helium, barbershop choirs full of old drunk men, gooey macaroni comfort food, and the odd arrogance of singing “My Wild Irish Ros...

Hi Sleepy. Imagine a quilt made out of clouds, moth wings, and half-forgotten conversations. This is that quilt. Only instead of keeping you warm, it might keep you... asleep. Or not. It is what it is. What happens, happens. In this hours-long, slow-moving meteor of sound, I’ve stitched together five journeys through the strange and familiar landscapes of my own head. We begin with a denial (“This...