As I lie here, cloaked in moonlight, on a semi-comfortable mattress whose bedsheet boasts a harmonious sprinkle of pomegranates and green apples, listening to stray dogs barking wildly at each other in the distance, waiting for the Mind to momentarily take a breather so I could jump straight into a deep well of deserved sleep, contemplating whether I should get up and make a cup of tea or do some push-ups, sniffing scents of charas creeping in from the room next door, back to internally discussing the true meaning of Mogwai's 1999 album titled Come On, Die Young, still amazed at how soft (but crispy on the outside) the butter pancakes were at the Tibetan restaurant wedged (and almost hidden) in between two "Indian Himalayas" T-shirt stores, I began to notice an isolated shadow, moving slowly towards the north, crafted by the ridiculous full moon against the west face of my dormitory's wardrobe: A sailboat. No bigger than the palm of my hand. A proud shadow of a lonesome stalk from a neighbouring apple tree. Sailing alone on the vast face of the wardrobe, heading towards the top. Who would've thought a boat could sail right to the top of a peak (in this case: a dusty plateau littered with lizard dung and unruly splinters). A thick cloud hovered and lingered long enough for the boat to lose its momentum. It's gone now. A fleeting moment only to be remembered if prompted by spontaneity.