Windows Reminiscent of Other Windows, now Lost

In the sunlight of day, (or in the churchyard-gray if your day is like my day was), you forget about this. You forget about these rooms, as days turn into weeks and weeks to months and months to years to a lifetime, however long that might be. You come back to places like this sometimes, to nights when the ceiling seems too low, and the window too reminiscent of some other window, some lost window, from a childhood home perhaps, that you can't quite remember. You might think about watching a film, but the thought of the television screen fills you with a dismal kind of euphony. I've not been here for years - forgotten these places existed, I mean really existed. I might have been aware of them in half remembered dreams, or afternoon daydreams on peculiarly rainy and spring-cold days. These places are real all right, and now I'm here again, they don't seem to have changed at all... except they're more ragged, more ramshackle, more seemingly prone to a kind of internal collapse at any moment than they seemed to be before... Not that they will collapse though. They can't. These places only exist because they are constant. Immutable architecture, an unholy spirit made out of concrete. It is us who are transient, but wherever we are, these rooms always exist, in their silence, in their Saturday nights with the ceilings too low and the windows reminiscent of other lost windows, whose locations you now can't recall.