The Conspiracy of a Tuesday that feels like Monday

An unpleasant man behind me in the queue at Tescos. I was glad I couldn't hear what he was saying.
The sun is back, defeated yesterday's magnificent gloom, but the sunlight feels like autumn, and the shadows are long like something vaguely longed for and remembered.
An age to fall asleep, last night, an epoch. Empires rose and fell, and I twisted and turned, driftwood in the swollen water of no-sleep. The small hours feel like forever.
The morning was a shock. 7:00 am drift. Shower and no time for tea, and I walk to work along the seafront. Sunlight and joggers and the homeless people under the arches by the tennis courts.
London Road at lunchtime. It felt like August in New York. I have never been to New York, but I have never been to Baltimore either, but I know what twilight is like there though.
Twilight is not here. The sky is blue and the sun is shining, but not in my north facing room. The light is altered though and it somehow does not feel quite like day should.
I dread the alarm in the mornings, wake up an hour before its lulling fairground chimes. Promise of a sinister sleep, and you'll fall asleep, past the snooze and late into the day.
I found an album 'The Grand Venomous Conspiracy' by a band I never heard of called Ringworm. The album cost me a pound, worth it for the artwork, by Away from Voivod.
These lines in themselves a tenuous conspiracy, these elements that make up this Tuesday that feels like Monday.
I do not know to what ends they conspire but am sure that I will never know.