Room enough for Myself and Strangers

Sat on my mattress on the floor, next to the fridge, which gurgles away happily to itself, sounding like some industrial process impression of a woodland stream.
I think the new person who has moved in next door is actually people. A couple. At least they didn't keep me awake until the small hours last night as they did the night before, and they only slammed the door sharply once. I was less than pleased however, to find that they both use the bathroom (which is now shared, if there are two people living in the room next door, amongst FOUR people) between 7 and 8am. I had my hand on the latch of my door when I heard someone clump out of next door and into the bathroom. I presume he has finished now (It's now 8:00am) but I settled for a wash in the sink instead. At least the sink wasn't full of unwashed plates.
Met Em last night after she finished work. She was up in Kemptown this time. That section of town seems far more autumnal than anywhere else in Brighton. I passed by Flo's house of course. There was someone sat on his wall, so I couldn't linger and peer into the darkness of his room. I wonder if the woman leaning there knew him at all? A relative perhaps, or a friend? Probably just someone passing by waiting for a friend or a lift, and knowing nothing of what happened in that room behind her back in March.
I dreamt of her last night though. I don't remember much of the dream, but I was passing by Flo's house (I think) and she, the waiting stranger, was crouched under his window, in an attitude both of pain and alertness, as if she were listening to something in the stones.
As I walked through Kemptown last night, I had a sudden dream-recollection come to me. It was bright and clear and very, very sudden. Nothing very exciting. It was the interior of rooms - bedrooms, reminiscent of student rooms. Yellow lamplight, clothes on the floor. The feel of these being basement rooms. There were two rooms, somehow connected to each other, though I can't explain how. I can't remember when I dreamt of these rooms. The dream feels years old, but could just as easily have been the night before. Whatever, the quality of the memory had all the substance of real, if somewhat vague, memory, as if the rooms belong to the history of someone else and not myself.