No Tides in these Single-Room Days

Days drift by with little to distinguish them. I haven't seen anyone else since I met up with Sarah for coffee on Wednesday lunctime. This alone-ness is not necessarily unpleasant. I fall asleep at around midnight and usually wake at mid-morning. I drift through the afternoons, snoozing, attempting to paint but not getting anywhere, listening to music (Julie Feeney, Bathory, Pombagira, Emily Jane White) and writing half-songs on the guitar that are ever to be finished. Fragments of old lyrics grafted onto fragmets of new sentences. Trapped within each ther, a sentence of sentences... 'an idea of a girl / sleeping in the sun / a church bell chimes / the colour of the earth / and the lamps down the old lane / sing an older song / I remember you...'
Exiled, as I feel, from the vulgar celebrations of summer I do not feel that much desire to venture into the outside world. I visit the local supermarket or newsagent for tobacco, supplies and newspapers. The odd charity shop or two, where cheap albums bring back memories of older sumers. I found an old goth compilation for 50p the other day. I used to have it before it got scratched to unplayability. I was pleased because it meant I had, again, the song 'Tragic Vaudevilles' by Love Like Blood. Summer of 1995. Walking with Bracken out over the Bretforton fields, August lasting for ever. No rain for months.
(- A short aside. In a rather alarming and unpredicatble turn of events, my coputer has just -very loudly- played me the sound of an old antique telephone. For no reason at all. I fear a virus is to blame. This laptop is falling apart. Hard-drive haunted by obsolete telecomunications devies-)
My bedsit smells strange. Of fresh polish and sprngtime. I don't know why. Puts me in mind of Southampton. Those lost days, and looking out of the window, those lost days of new September-terms at new colleges in mostly unknown cities. Oh yes, and the sumer of 1994, my last summer in west London. Those days so much like these, seeing no-one for days, lost inside a single room. The year ticking away, hours marked by daydreams and indolence...
I feel like an artist or a writer living a garrett life in an old city, but I finish no paintings and write nothng.
I dreamt last night about my new job. On the first day I had gone back to the old call centre accidentally. There was some kind of teaching program in operation now. Chidren amongst the pods and the phones and the computers. I realised I was in the wrong place, and looking at my time to start I could not tell whether it was 9:00am or 9:30am.
Numbers in dreams are always hard to read.
4:49pm. Late afternon, but it feels like no-time, or all time.
The drifting days of summer continues. Sun and rain, sleep and waking, and falling asleep again.
The river is sluggish, a langourous pool. I drift on the waters, waiting for a current, for a tide, for a ship.
For something which will inevitably change.
The nights are creeping back and twilights seem beautiful again.