Cabin Fever

Sunday morning, 11:18. Am sat in some internet cafe near Sackville Road. Empty cellar room. Just the sound of the keyboard, and a clock ticking on the wall in front of me. Sunny outside, though that winter sun that seems somehow desolate. At least it makes a change from the rain, not that I mind rain too much.
Finally got the keys to my bedsit; a small room on the second floor looking out onto the street. Not moved in yet though, have to find some means of getting my stuff over there, and people to help me move it, but everyone has gone away for the weekend, so I've stayed at Andy's flat on my own. Joe, when he first saw the bedsit said 'this is the room of a writer who ends up killing themselves'. We turned off the light, just to see what it was like. The window frame made a rather portentious crucifix shape, outlined against the streetlight. Deep, dark shadows. The darkness almost palpable.
A decade full of bad flats and cursed houses. I'm getting sick of it.
Went out with Joe and people from work on Friday. Had three absinthes which is far too many, amongst other things. Walking back through driving rain, stoned and soaking (we had gone round T's house after the pub), half-lost in unfamiliar streets. Fascinated by the gutter-rivers, mini floods cascading down drains, over dams of drowned leaves, watching a plastic fork turn up, get stuck, be devoured.
Strange day yesterday. Didn't see anyone, bought lamps and lightbulbs, moved some stuff over to the bedsit. Hollow, empty room. Be glad when all my stuff is there, next weekend apparently. Sick of this transient phase. Homeless with a home. As twilight fell, a sense of isolation fell over me. A. is away up north, so I am staying in his flat -the Capsule- on my own. Couldn't rest. Didn't feel like listening to music. Nothing on television. Eventually fell asleep at about 10pm. Don't remember dreaming. Maybe I do. yes I do. Canalboats and sunny days. A feeling of untraceable anxiety.
Half an hour until midday.
I'll be glad when Sunday is over.