Distillations of Concentrated Time

I have long suspected there may be some neurological basis to my fascination and obsession with the past. Tempted as I am to self diagnose with hyperthymesia, this is probably not the case, as I lack the photographic memory (though my chronological memory is indeed very good). I do however spend an inordinately large amount of time thinking about my past (a side effect of the condition), but more importantly, are those constant rushes of the past itself. I don't mean memories - or not just memories - but something else more vital, as if time itself is rushing all over me, as some kind of almost physical sensation.
All day long I have been thinking about Hillingdon Circus (where Western Road crossed Long Lane in Hillingdon). I'm not sure why. To be more precise, Hillingdon Circus in January 1991. There are memories attached to this place and this time, but none important. Of more importance, or resonance are the feelings that this is generating. I can't describe them very well, but phrases like the consolation of January nights and sentient black skies over street lamps like gods and the eternal night-bridge are probably far more evocative of being doused in this curious and particular distillation of concentrated time.