Lines Written in a Notebook on the Tube Train from Uxbridge to Baker Street Station

Woodstock Drive is a dark road. The houses sit in a deep eerie peace. In that peace the odd feeling that something is waiting for something. The darkness looked unreal and the glow of the street light oddly ineffectual.
All around the ceaseless mechanism of the A40 - something I don't remember from adolescence.
The streets were without voices.
I don't remember passing anyone.

Swakeleys Park felt like early spring - birdsong in the twilight.

A sense of linear time almost completely broken. Like walking through a dream of places once lived in.

Looking through the windows of no.33. Lots of lights on, but no sign of anyone moving about. The angles of my old room - the tiny room (spare) now with a bunk bed. That same impersonal air in the lightbulb light, as if the rooms were too large, like rooms in a public building than a home. Over the haunted night of 1990 I remember this happening too - the bathroom seemed hospital huge... A sense of the house busy and caught up in itself, lost in its own haunted mechanisms.

The alleyway was ragged. Weeds growing by the fences on either side. A forgotten place. People just pass through here and don't stay.

(The above is transcribed from the notebook I bought at W.H.Smiths in Uxbridge. I wrote the above on the tube back to Baker Street, somewhere from about 6:15pm - 7:00pm. I'll write in greater detail about it tomorrow hopefully, but thought it would be interesting to provide notes for a post before the post itself).