Bowie walked bored, as if through smoke - between drunken bodies, loud laughter and flashes of light. One of a thousand identical evenings, one of a thousand stranger celebrations. The music rattled in his ears, everything seemed blurred, artificial, distant. He made his way through the crowd, whose laughter was like a background - fake, sticky.

In his hand, a nearly melted ice cube in his whiskey glass. He shook the glass, watching the amber liquid roll lazily over the glass. Bowie lowered himself onto the worn leather couch, which smelled of other people's conversations, sweat, and booze.

He sighed. His gaze slid around the room, but clung to no one. Everything seemed distant, not real, like a dream from which he could not wake up for some reason. Suddenly someone sat down next to him. Silently. No movement, no attempt to speak. He felt the gaze on him. Only then, unhurriedly, did he turn his head. The seconds dragged on like drops from a tired candle. He raised an eyebrow and said hoarsely.

"Fed up, eh?"