Message from Europe: 'Crows Feasting on Old Gates, Sky Taut and Clipped'

Head full of mild cold. Feels like the inside of my body is a few degrees too warm and my skin is a few degrees too cold. My sinuses are lightly clogged, and a Sunday-drizzle of a headache patters around my forehead. Lay in bed for an hour earlier in the grey and desolate hour between 8:00pm and 9:00pm. A restless time to try and nap in December - too late for an afternoon snooze, and too early for a nights sleep. Always that fear though of waking in the small hours with the lights still on and that sense of utter disorientation that must always accompany an awakening from an unexpected sleep.
Restless out there tonight, a jaggedy wind has been up for hours; rain-splash, black hills dream. Watch the lamps in the Mews swing across the courtyard. Yellow light on uneven stones. No-one ever down there.
The wind is in here too. As I tried to sleep in that desolate hour, I was continually disturbed by the door of my room rattling and the cat flap banging. In the hallway the lampshade swung back and forth like some poltergeist incident.
Earlier, Andy tells he how he heard the footsteps again. The ghosts of coachmen. A tacit and unspoken agreement between us. Maybe if we can convince ourselves the place is haunted it will be haunted. Why do we want a haunted place so much? Won't seem such a good idea when I'll wake unexpectedly in the small hours alone in the flat though. We begin to experiment on the capsule instead of the capsule experimenting on us. No single phantasm here, no one surviving echo or continuing resonance of personality caught on the walls and the restless door of my room. What would be here would be a fragment of all coachmen, a spectre of all transient and equine journeys. I wonder what this flat was like then - what dreams dreamt in my room on Victorian Sundays and Edwardian afternoons?
I imagine a dark place - slatted windows made of autumn-brown wood and the glass in the frames warped like the myth of liquid they are rumoured to be.
The cat-flap goes again.
Earlier on - somewhere between that uneasy sleep and a bath my hair is still wet from - the cat-flap made such a noise it really did sound like someone was trying to get in the flat, a burglar alarm, the wind stealing quiet from the stairs.

I'm chatting to Joe on Facebook while writing this, a long thread passed back and forth from Poland, where he is, to here, where I am, in the Mews. His words from over the sea, from that dark and imagined Europe; '...have to go to bed... tired... beeping mobile... early morning winter sky... crows feasting on cold gates... sky taut and clipped... my legs cold in trousers... walking...' I send another message to Joe that his words are now in Bridge 39.

Wind dies down out there, a mumble now. My typing on the keyboard sets up a rattle of its own on the table, noise like a miniature train set, or tiny shrunken footsteps.