He was thinking that none of it was real; it was all elsewhere, floating slowly just out of reach. Then she whispered in his ear, "you change the way I see colors," and the sky opened up like an epic Greek poem; a numerical vision bounced around his skull. He turned on the stereo and played that song again — they were all symbolic at that point, but this one resonated and brought forth joy which lacked the bitter-sweet taste he had become accustomed to. He still had questions, but the answers held not the depth they once had mere moments earlier. It mattered not where he was going anymore, but where he'd been: dancing like a loon, laughing, drinking, smelling, tasting. Living.
He too saw colors differently then.