Broken Shipwreck

Open windows, cold air, dead night.
The floor of my room is messy as a haunting. The lamp on my bedside table is damp, a dull sun, it's light swallowed by the flat light of the... of the what? What do you call the light that hangs from ceilings? Anyway, that light is even dimmer, and makes the mess of my floor - (typed pages, a friend's story,a camera, an envelope, discarded clothing, a ripped towel) a pensive constellation, stars waiting for some drab alignment. It feels like the 1970s in here.
Voices from outside. They were letting off fireworks earlier. Yelps of joy. That air cuts like a knife. I should close my windows, but that black air is pleasing.
Voices or a dogs bark.
Earlier at the sea, an October heatwave - like last year - and I could no longer find any meaning in the cup of tea that was bought from the seafront cafe. Left it tilted on the pebbles, but like a failure of a shipwreck, the tea stayed in the polystyrene cup (or whatever they make those take out cups from these days). I felt duty bound to drink it but tasted nothing.
I came home and tried to sleep, and I suppose I did for I remember waking at 6:15pm. I burnt rice. I left a tea bag in a cup of tea too long.
Those old fantasies  recur, of slipping through the window, and following empty roads into night-hills full of woods and autumn leaves, and a dry hut with a mattress and a blanket, and a place to sleep for as long as I would want to because thee is no time in those hills.
Sometimes those hills are houses or lakes, or fevers, or memories, or woods, or certain alleyways in certain afternoons... but whatever form those hills take, I shall never reach them.
The year continues, like this evening.
Open windows, cold air, dead night.