Strange dreams culminating in the feeling of water, strange sounds in the distances of morning and then awake. Rain caught upon the wind, strong enough to blow the rain through open windows. Then a flash, the sound of thunder following. A thunderstorm. 
The morning slowed, kitchori and bread pakora, quiet streets puddled as shutters rise late into the morning. 
And there are routines which can be found here, infinitely flexible where repetition becomes resemblance.
Maybe these are the places we seek, outwith the dance, where tendrils of dream and experience merge and the road out can be postponed or taken but with an understanding that, eventually, it'll return here.