Rise quite late, again. Realize that you've gone nocturnal and there's nothing you can do about it, and besides, it's a long flight home in which to recover some of those lost hours and it's not like your sleep patterns have ever been consistent.
Do some manly firewood-stacking out in the cold. Build a wall of dressed firewood, noting the consistency of the sawyer's work. Clean the dishes. Stoke the stove. Drink in the clear North Country air. Sort your mail. Note the alarming number of letters you have yet to write. Remember to pick up more stamps soon.
Start thinking about packing to go home in a few days. Try not to think about missing the firewood and the cold and the insomniac luxury.
Read your script. Yes, read it again. No, you haven't read it enough times already. You never remember that one bit with the thing and the other guy who does that one thing when that other bit happens. Maybe you should think about getting that right for once?
Go off onto the rural roads again. "Trees like spiders", you said. Rock out with the radio as you psych yourself up for the evening's performance. Taste the cold in your fingers, in your bones. Don't ever forget the taste of this place.
Grab dinner at the deli. Keep drinking lots of water. Keep looking for more poems to write.
Savor this play. Be thankful that it still tingles, always does, in all the right places. That's what makes it all worthwhile; drink in the expressions on the audience' faces at the curtain. Don't ever forget the taste of that.
Write more letters after the show. Pick up ice cream and spelt bread for your hosts. And a hot cup of coffee for the ride home, and the sleepless night to look forward to.