He knew that such trivial and yet poetical experiences were
what constituted human happiness.
He stepped outside and then walked a couple of blocks in a still
relatively unfamiliar terrain. To him, the surveyor of the night, the
city spilled out in the oozing newness of black and yellow tubes of
paint. There was a larger road and across the street was a Seven-Eleven
convenience store. He stood there and his eyes followed the traffic
that went directly in front of it. He rummaged through one of his bags
until he found his glue. He inhaled its fumes and popped some
amphetamines he had purchased at the drugstore with Kazem's pocket
money.
He remembered that Suthep and Kazem, like curious beasts, had
occasionally looked in on him during that time, a year ago, when his
body had its opiate force (really a mixed drug combination adversely
affected by beer he drank during the Songkran New Year's water fight)
poured from it like water from a colander. How sick he had been. From
Kazem's suggestion, it had been a monk--a former teacher of his
boyhood-- whom he had stayed with while he was stiff and shaking.
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