During the night, the bus from Madikeri had a flat tire. Pierre lucid dreamed the whole thing. A cold, thin stream of air blew on me all night from the bus window that refused to shut. At 6am, we took an overpriced rickshaw home from the bus stop. The cold morning air blew through our disheveled hair and we shivered, anxious to get back to the apartment to get some more rest before beginning the week. It’s strange to wake up again, around 8am, feeling as though you have already lived this day and like some kind of uncomfortable dream, you must still continue the same damn day, in a stupor from unrestful sleep and end of vacation gloom.