Drifting on an Old Fashioned Sea

Thinking while at work today; in the future this will be old time. Look around me, at all the people in their old fashioned clothes, the old fashioned computers and headphones, and out of the window there is an old fashioned sea. Living in someone else's history. Perhaps I was remembering this nondescript day, when I was very, very old - perhaps in my eighties or nineties. Or remembering it when I will be old, rather than was old.
Kind of day that seems to mess up time, not one for the correct use of tenses.
I think it was a quality that the fog bought down. Watched it from the call centre, watched the buildings and the distance sink into it. That strangely calm sea had no horizon to it either. No waves, no wind. Just that slightly off-white stillness. Seemed to block the flow of things, of hours and seconds and minutes. Time backing up, floundering in pools made of endless afternoons, A flood of hours, a wave of memories.
Beyond, or perhaps, inside the welcome grey of the day - I am startled by dream-like memories - or rather, dream-like memories of even more dream-like fevers, or maybe even just those half-images that come with those mild and dreamy childhood illnesses.

Thought of something I've not thought of for a while, One of those things you know hasn't happened, and doesn't have the quality of having happened, nor of a dream. It's quality is not definable. Not a day for definitions, never mind tenses.

Kind of day that seems to mess up language.
-walking in the woods, and I am older than myself in this not-quite-memory. A November wood, late autumn trees, and they're tall and sombre, and the air between the bark is troubled, and the air must always be described as being troubled in such places as these. Drifting fog, can taste the sharp mist-kiss at the back of my throat. Breathe in this still day and know nothing flows. Come across some building in the woods. Another school. The fact that there is another school, indicates the presence of a previous school... though I don't know where or when. A low building, surrounded by trees growing too close to the walls, to that empty playground, guilty in its silence. Classes are in session though. The yellow light shines from square windows. Fluorescent headache hum. Chalky blackboard score. I don't go near, and I can't see in. The condensation on the window tastes of evening, and the light is failing here-

It has the taste of something from childhood, perhaps a fragment of a film, sliver of a ghost story read in one of the Armada Ghost Books I used to love. Something bought to me on the tides of an old fashioned sea.

A plague of daytime street lamps. See them when I walk to work in the night-chill lingering morning, light sluggish and sleepy. One orange lamp seems bright and antique as a bar on an electric fire, hanging in the air defiantly; this is not the day, nothing flows here. In the grounds of a tiny and obscure hospital I pass, waist high lights - car park globes - gather in the gloom, a Stephen King country. Brick-thick novels of haunted hospitals found on the rotating bookstands of W.H.Smiths stalls inside of old-fashioned tube stations with antique and unheard of names.

The lights in the car park make me think of rain and sleep.

From the call centre I watch them in the distance, on the farther hill, till they are swallowed up by the fog. The stillness in the day is triumphant, gloom resplendent. No song, no echoes, nothing moving, a ceaseless drifting, no wind, a Sargasso sea of a day, old fashioned and resplendent in its muted display, a drugged and attic-light reign.