Half an Hour Left of January

The slough of 11:30pm, the last valley of the day before the needle peaks of midnight. Watching the Blakes Seven episode 'Sarcophagus'. The Liberator is haunted, Cally is possessed, and I haven't really been paying attention because I've been writing a message to a friend on Facebook.
The DVD player is whining again - I am being haunted by entropy again - by a mild sense of things breaking down and a disappointment in the imperfectness of devices. Perhaps the only device that can be trusted is sleep, though its purpose is uncertain, and its side-effects are, well, undreamt of...
January nearly done now, and we have the narrow though forever-lasting greyness of February. A strange and forgotten month February. February is rarely remembered well. The cold days of past Februaries are remembered as being in January, and the warm days as March.
Crossing a low, wide bridge over a vast sluggish sea the colour of lead. No land and no sky. Watching the water for the shadows of sea monsters.
This is February.
The bridge is nearly here.