Spindrift Cast in Subterranean Attics

I can't ever remember it feeling this late at night before, even if it is still a quarter of an hour until midnight.
It is the cold that makes everything feel so late and remote and oddly abandoned. I don't feel like I'm sitting in a freezing room in a Hove flat writing this but in an empty room in an abandoned research facility on some remote island, - off the coast of Scotland perhaps. Draw back the curtains and I'll see a corridor. This night feels subterranean, and everything - even time - so utterly frozen. Feels like I'm in an attic deep underground. The cold sharpens things, sharpens everything, the air is like a knife and the only heat is from a cup of tea on the bedside table made out of empty cardboard boxes. I would turn the heating on, but like the best of haunted houses, it doesn't make a difference. I can see my breath as I write, a spindrift biology.
I can't hear anything. No noise. Utter, utter silence. I can't even imagine voices. I feel like I'm the last man alive. Which is an oddly pleasant feeling. Daylight is another land entirely, a continent, a lifetime away. There is something peaceful about it being this late at night, even if it isn't late at all.