Revision # 1

The glow of the paper lanterns in the sweat stained tavern transported him to thoughts of home. He missed the scent of baking bread in the air, even the dirty streets, bustling with people of all shapes and sizes. No matter where he lived, he was reminded of Paris daily in his accent and in the letters that his mother sent him. His mind wandered to the pile of tattered, yellow notes scattered on the floor of his dingy city apartment. 
He lifted the bottle to his lips, hoping he could stop the bitter memories with the bitter taste of vodka. The first sip of alcohol penetrated his tongue, each drink slowly becoming easier than the last. He let the booze flood his brain as he had so many times before. His wandering mind took him back to his sober day, beginning with a pounding headache. He had a long afternoon at work, the greedy screams of young children still rang in his ears. 
With another drink, a sloppy smile crept upon his bright, painted lips. So often he forgot why he moved away from the home he loved. The children. They were the ones that brought him the most happiness. The art of clowning was a dying one, and America was the only place that seemed to have any traveling carnivals. Suddenly, the hearty laugh of a man with a graying beard sent him back into drunken reality. He felt so out of place in the company of men. Their voices were gruff and their jokes were inappropriate and rowdy. Pure disgust came over him. 
He knew he was alone in this world. The heart of a child beat inside of his costumed chest. Tomorrow he could live his dying dream again, his inevitably pounding headache going away with each child's joyful giggle. He let out an exasperated sigh and took another drink. He hated the smell of cigarettes. He hated the fowl language that escaped their mouths. His vision grew obscured as he shot up from the table, the subtle clink of silverware and porcelain shaking from the impact. None of the men questioned his sudden behavior. They hated the clown just as much as he did. They became silent and watched him as he stumbled out of the cafe, vodka on his breath.
The clown clumsily rushed home and looked in the mirror, swiping a sweaty, meaty hand across his painted face. The broken man was revealed behind the clown, as it was every evening. He would never come to terms with himself. He stared angrily at the sunken, aging face that peered back at him. It felt inhuman. His hand grazed across the postcard from Paris that had been tacked to his mirror years ago. He smiled, thinking of his young, limber body, riding his rusting bicycle through the square, he would set his straw hat on the cobblestones, performing tricks as he heard francs clinking into it. He felt a sudden pain in his head and was brought back to his dirty apartment, open pots of face paint all over his dresser. A yawn escaped his lips as he stretched his worn joints. He got up and sank into his spring mattress, a loud creak emerging from beneath him. He closed his tired eyes, dreaming of twinkling paper lanterns.