I recently started smoking.
He gently opens the door, in his hand a book of poems written by his favorite jewish writer, and in the other hand a pack of cigarettes that's always about to finish. He asks the bartender for one beer, he's still new to this foreign malt, his local beer taste lingers in the back of his mind, along with the long conversations he used to have with the old bar owner in his hometown, and the laugh or two he shared with his comrades in that old place. A drunk man reach out to him, asking him about his weird accent, years of living in the western hemisphere didn't change the roots of his Arabian tongue, he feels a little bit of warmth in his heart, he hadn't spoken to a person in a week, the hint of a human interaction made him feel alive again.
He takes a look at the page number, and closes the book and explain to the man that he came from a land far far away, behind that great sea. The drunk man laughs, he thought people who came from this place never tasted alcohol before, and they are never planning to, but our sand man explains to him how he used to steal life's joy from that miserable place, so he was no stranger to that golden drink.
He takes a look at the walls around him, how he likes the dimly lit environment, he was always into these places for his late nights, he knew where he would practice his solitude away from his busy life, maybe it's not that bad of a place.