Suspended in Restless Hours

A permanent dusk has settled over the city, a twilght suspension. The sky has been eaten by a white void, and the blusters of wind down the streets seem to somehow emphasise the stillness rather han oppose it.
There is no time here, a chronovore has crawled out of the restless seas and fed itsef on hours and seasons, minutes, days and twilights. This could be one of those nowhere days of January, a gloomy summer day, or one of those afernoos in April, where the white skies seem both restless and frozen.
I dreamt last night that the crack in my door had grown, and a woman lounged on the other side of the doorway, resting her elbow in the crook of the door. I woke from this dream half-convinced of an incursion from one of the shadows of this house of bedsits, or perhaps a darker shadow from the Death House two doors down.
The new town out of the window at work showed a different side to itself today. Perhaps it was even another new town, for I dd not feel that sense of joy and intimacy that the original new town gave. A new geography caused both by the white void of the day and the fact that the blinds were closed on the fourth flor of the call centre. There is a buildig in the distance, but between the slats of the blinds it resembled more a hazy wood on the brow of a hill. I could imagine a row of street lamps flickering on there in grey and desoate Novembers. A rainy evening walk by closely clustered trees that in their movement would emulate the sea.
I have lately become attracted to the idea of walking down to Hove Lagoon to arrive at twilight, but this does not seem to be the right kind of twilight for such a journey. Hove Lagoon is a strange place, incongruous in this city. A kind of loneliness hangs about it, remniscent of dull afternons in nowhere towns, rainy cigaettes and clinging sleep.
I have begun to think at dusk though, the still water, the swans and the low buildings by the closed cafe would exert a mysterious pull, 'dreary but meaningful' to quote Fritz Leiber in his story 'Smoke Ghost'.
My god, the air here in this room is so thick with twilight it feels almost palpable, like a London smog of the 1950s. Foreign voices in thehallway, and footsteps on the stairs suddenly disturb my reverie. They fade agin, back into the miasma of this house.
I feel full of dreams and uncertain afternoons. The white of the skies is begining to darken into greyer tones. This must be the street lamp twilight. I can hear them begin to awaken. Night is coming, and this is their country, their season now. The roads belong to ghost stories and unfocussed memories of times once lived. Suspended in this dusk, the city shifts and sleeps and casts her dark shadow over us all.