Under Siege by Ghosts with Unknown Histories

The equation is desolation.
The bedsit feels wrong; an unsafe haunted feel. I should tidy up, but every time I am here, I take refuge on my bed and the television (bad reception, Coronation Street lost in snow) and wait till I can fall asleep. I wake in the dawn, waiting for the alarm, in that cruel beguiling winter light. A white harsh kiss.
Footsteps on the street sound cold.
The taxis passing by sound cold.
Outside the bedsit, the landing falls away from me like a corridor from The Overlook. A Brighton Shining. This House of Bedsits does not feel restful.
I sit cross legged on my bed now, a sheet wrapped around my shoulders. Some pretence at warmth, but I am not in the habit of switching heaters on.
There is some recompense in the desolation of December, and it is this; that there is nothing but December. No past (except in daydreams) no future... no time.
The walk to work and back, Em's flat, sleep, the coffee machine at work.
But this bedsit feels haunted.
Or rather, the landing, the stairways, the bathrooms, the toilets, everything inside this building but outside this bedsit seems haunted.
I am under siege by ghosts whose histories are not known.

(last night I dreamt of dark spaces in the street, and these spaces were portals to places that were lightless. In these lightless places, occult forces would react and merge, a chemical arcana, a non-chemical alchemy...Outside of these lightless places, layers of runes and sigils, symbols from an infinity of oppositing cultures to keep the occult forces trapped harmlessly inside)

10:05pm
We are falling clumsily toward midnight, and from the summit of that valley, the dawn is an eternal cliffs fall away.