The Capsule, Drifting through the Small Hours

I tried to read for an hour before going to sleep last night, a last cup of tea and the dim bulb of my bedside lamp slowly warming up, like a street lamp for rooms. I had the quilt wrapped around me but I was still cold.
There was no sound of anything. I've been living here for three months and there are still times when it strikes me how silent it is at night. No taxis, no cars, no drunken shouts. With the curtains in my room drawn, it felt like I could be anywhere, locked in a capsule left to drift through small hours seas. For whatever reason, last night felt very remote, as if my room had settled inside another house, one far larger and labyrinthine with lost hallways and abandoned rooms. The cold had an odd and piercing quality about it, and when I turned off the light, I shivered under two quilts until I fell into a dreamless sleep.