Ambling in a mountain cliffed town with cement buildings, seeds of Tibet, Italian restaurants and butchered Beijing olympics propaganda. Smoking enough to stock up and drinking UV with the chai; insouciant to the realization that I can't really be arsed to do anything else. The boundless itinerary has terminated.
We're looking at 168 hours. In another mode of defining time, it can be said as a week. But 168 hours sounds like a lot less.
A night bus to Delhi three evenings prior to when the watch stops; and that's it. Over and out with a red violin and too many recently stocked wool socks.
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