The Time of the Bedsit, Collapsing

Time passes, drips and flows. Is this autumn - not summer, not autumn. Wrote the same sometime last year. Nine days left of the bedsit now. A time full of glad farewells - though it still seems difficult to believe I shall not be living here in a couple of weeks.
Went around to see Andy at his flat last night. The thick darkness of the stairs down to his place, his basement studio, beginning to adopt the air it had when he first moved in. Like the bedsit too. Or not. This space doesn't feel mine now, but nor does it feel like it did when I moved in here. I wonder how these last days in the bedsit will be remembered.
Seagulls and the air beginning to shift and loop, an October blue. Worcester Echoes? Kinloss?
This time of year, this shift from summer to autumn, is always strange, a welcome resonance that rumours of an opening into even stranger chronographies, a new type of time, a season underneath September.
Like weeks spent breathing under the water of deep forest pools, a subterranean dream, laced with daydreams, threaded tight with serpents.