3.26pm: Slouched on the pleather couch in The Library. It's actually just a few half-hearted shelves of books, with more encyclopedias than real reading material. (Although to be fair, encyclopedias are pretty interesting. I did spend a fair bit of time with them in primary school. Projects—zapping pages and pages from thick volumes in the library, making friends with the photocopy auntie, playing catching and getting earfuls from pissed off librarians…)

The ceiling fan is turning lazily, silently. Some jazzy song is playing in the background. Behind me is a window. I could hear a rock band jamming, I wonder in which rundown shophouse, but they have stopped. A muffled rock band is remarkably soothing. I can imagine their dreams, youth, talent and good looks without subjecting myself to the reality that, well, maybe they only have dreams.

3.38pm: It's almost time to head out for my coach ride. Bye bye, Majestic Malacca—for this price, I do think you could have paid finer attention to detail, but we'll save that for another day. In no time, I'll be home. I love travelling and I love homecoming. Sometimes it's the staying that is problematic.