The Poisonous Timetable

We seem to be in no season, no time, no day, nowhere, caught in a poisonous timetable of the spirit. A plague of yawns, of faltering prayer and badly learnt lines for half-asleep plays performed in theatres of the mundane. A place torn, a pace too fast, and I yearn
-for the strangest things-
(for the petrol station, for those quiet Sunday afternoons serving white van drivers their fuel and Benson and Hedges cigarettes, for that post 10:30pm walk back along the Old Shoreham Road, I remember this in black wind and black rain, and returning to the no-hot-water flat down Buckingham Street, the only time I could stand that place, sat in what I remember was a rocking chair but wasn't, and the autumn of six years ago, and the blue-white air of that time)
I reach forward to turn off the light, but I cannot find the light switch in the dark.