He stepped out of the party and began walking down the sidewalk.
The music had been good, as it always was in city, but the scene had grown old. All the same face, all the same conversations done over and over again so everyone could have some sort of sense of being. In reality, none of the people there had any sense of anything. They were all just pairs of feet playing follow the leader.
His feet were walking the other way.
Eventually the sidewalk ended and shriveled up into spattered pieces of concrete.
He sat down on the curb and held his stomach. The smell of a burning house down the road had diffused its way through the air. He curled up further in his clothes, trying his hardest to come up with a good reason for him to be there.
And then he vomited.
He threw up on the side of the street and rolled over on his back.
As he laid there, looking up at the street lamp he saw the words vomit.
Spray painted in thin lines, someone had tagged the pole.
vomit.

He smiled, and closed his eyes.