40 Watt Bulb Disasters

Twilight on the beach. I watch the joggers, watch the water wash over stones. Read 'The English Ghost' by Peter Ackroyd. Remember when I first got back from the states I would be reading 'Noctuary' by Thomas Ligotti. Summer bright stones, summer bright tides. Still too clammy but summer feels long gone now.
October tomorrow, that old month, and the breaking down of all mechanisms this month and a half continues. Dials pop, clogs grind to a halt, all rooms seem stuck in some halfway place. 40 watt bulb disaster in the nooks and crannies of this year.
Shall I ask for a shift at the power station, out amongst the cyclops light (some industrial, lighthouse) and all those empty galleys, and beyond that, outside, those quarries that can't be quarries because we're at the docks.
These are machine like gods, like crows. A scarecrow technology.
The beach is dark and I am home, and I still try to hear the waves on the stones.