A New Summer Obscuring October

Sat in the my bedroom at the Mews. Cup of tea, open windows behind me. Still unused to the vastness of the room compared to the bedsit - and the freshness of the light - no longer will these afternoons be spent languishing in those typhoid yellow spaces.
I walk along the seafront to work in the mornings now, a trip of about 45 minutes. The seafront is full of joggers and dog walkers. The tide seems far out when I leave at 8:00pm, and beyond the pebbled slopes, the receding water has revealed a long strip of rare sand. The people down there look like shadows, silhouettes in the sudden heat of these strange days.
Not sure when the heatwave began, or when I first became aware of it, but there is no trace of autumn anywhere now. It even smells like summer, that fecund, overripe smell of those first hot days of the year. There is something achingly familiar about it, but I am unsure what though, vague remembrance of something, some obscure lost summer. It struck me today as I passed by the Co-op down Blatchington road. The air shimmering, and the summery people passing by, time about to flip back, to be reminded of another hot summer, but the summer stayed lost and I walked on.
Portland road in the heat does not feel part of Brighton at all. It is how I imagine some road in some forgotten region of New York to be. The abandoned churches look almost industrial, and the boarded up fire station tower reminds me of things only glimpsed on television programmes I wasn't really watching; civil war architecture, Southern Gothic hospitality, hello William Faulkner, how are you?
I tried to read William Faulkner. Unreadable.
Gave up after one story.
I seem to reach the Mews this past week at the end of sunset. Lanterns hang over the paved ground, the flower baskets outside the door of a woman are undisturbed. She is the only resident here allowed these hanging baskets as she is ill, in and out of hospital perhaps, with some terminal condition. Landlady rumours, gossip from above the stables.
At sunset the Mews seems Mediterranean in nature. Beyond the arches at the end, beyond the streetlamp is a darkness that promises the landscape of some new country; dry leaves on the flagstones of churches, lizard whispers on too still air.
I hear the washing machine in the kitchen, and the sound of clinking from the tea shop on Richardson Road.
I feel I could sleep for days.