His head floated, no, levitated with the alcohol in his blood. The stereo played a popular song unknown to him. He tapped his foot to the rhythm anyway. The vocalist performed an emotionally charged solo over the whistle of the pressure cooker in the kitchen of the small restaurant. Fake grape vines, orange, red, and green leaves of plastic, hung from the wooden latticework on the ceiling of the rooftop bar. The brick wall pattern, exaggerated by the white lines separating the coarse red bricks, clashed disgustingly with the blue walls and the grimy green windows.
His spinach and cheese steamed dumplings were getting cold; his beer getting warm; but he continued to stare out the window; past the golden Plaster of Paris ornamentation of the Tibetan temple; past even the concrete block hotel with the chipped paint which was once white but had lost its virginity to years of pollution; and saw a glimpse of the blue evening sky through the shifting clouds.
He was finally living.