On Sundays, the Bedsit is Full of Edges

Night just fallen, 6:11pm. Blue light heading toward full darkness. Across the street, the yellow windows of flats are muted under the rain-splash on the windows. There is the sound of water dripping somewhere.
Silent in the House of Bedsits. A strange nervy atmosphere as if I shouldn't be here, an agitated haunted air.
I imagine I can hear the sea.
It sounds like the small hours.