It was automatic. Though deep in residual early morning slumber, he came awake at the sound of paper being ripped. The ticket, of course! It came in a gray, recycled, low grade paper, cheque-like rectangularity. He accepted it as soon as the conductor handed it over. Whereas before he was asked of his destination beforehand, this time, due to the regularity with which he availed of this mode of transportation, the conductor already instinctively knew his destination. Magal Lanes--he could tell from the patterns of the perforations. He noted how the holes just exactly appear right where a particular number would have been, and it left no doubt in his mind that the conductors of this particular bus liner were not only experts at traversing the interior of a bus while in motion, but they were also pretty darn good at punching ticket holes with extreme accuracy. Like the punch cards of early computers, this seemingly insignificant bus ticket contained a wealth of information. From the date and time of travel, kilometers from the source to the destination, amount to be paid, it also displayed the the serial number. This last was to him the most crucial piece of information held in this oft-ignored bus ticket. As he took it he gave it a not so insignificant time in contemplative perusal, noting in its uniqueness how it had never ocassioned--and quite expectedly!--that he has been handed a bus ticket of this serial number before. He nodded in approval at the authenticity of the whole deal, paid the conductor the amount expected of him, and leaned back in his seat to resume his sleep.