I ride the scooter: and I see a graying drunk, well dressed, being mocked at by all passersby. His head (temples) are covered with dry vomit; his clothes too, glittering with crystals called hardened puke. He tries to light a cigarette, but the flame and the cigarette head don't connect.
People mock at him, deride him and loud spit him.
He is still unconcerned, happy, and standing alone as pillar, trying to understand the experience of existence--a Sartrean existence- nihiliating being, and existing so farcically as the 'authentic' called being-in- itself and being-for-itself.