Come this Autumn we'll be Miles Away

Sat in the living room.
Empty flat - Andy is until next week, visiting family - and the closed door of his room hides that silence that all rooms have when their usual occupants are not there. A sense of dust and attics, lost things and time where nothing changes.
The heatwave continues, and seems to be entering a different phase - or perhaps it is the year, moving on, entering deep summer.
We've not had a true deep summer for three years now.
I return to work next week on Monday, and the thought of that falls heavy now, a shadow that almost has weight, a substance composed of that 7:00am alarm. I must leave that place. I will leave that place. Into the unknown, and a line from an old song echoes back come this autumn we'll be miles away.
That line comes from a song (by a band called 'Meanwhile Back in Communist Russia') that I would play over the summer of ten years ago. That was a heatwave summer too. I remember being stuck on a train coming back from York for hours and hours. Up the country and down again over the course of a day. I remember those last few weeks of living at Flo's place - that house of dust as I remember calling it. Why dust? I don't know. There was something dusty about that August.
Feels like I've stumbled onto a crossroads I can't see, got to take the right road, but I can't see the right road, let alone the crossroads. August has begun to rear up, some giant, unruly horse of a month, and beyond that September, and then October - the unknown, and the future all with a sense of potential and panic.
I often think about lost things, lost objects, lost times, lost loves, and underneath all these lost things that greater truth, and one that becomes more self-evident as I get older, that we're all lost really, and we spend our lives waiting to be found, waiting to remember where we are and where we should be or go.
I'm watching the beautiful and harrowing Never Let Me Go. Just reaching the end. Something pale and haunting about the film I can't quite narrow down. Something nostalgic, some memory it almost awakens but then slips away (rain in a deep English wood, the reflection of grey skies in pools of rain, afternoons sleeping in rickety rooms in countryside summers before wars)
Everything feels far away now.
Come this autumn we'll be miles away.
The film has now finished, the credits are rolling, and its 7:43pm, and it could be no time, no place, but I am here, on this Friday night in the July of my 42nd year.