Stage technicians ascend the scaffolding and perch like gargoyles of sound and light, secured only by a rope and a carabiner. A procession of food trucks lines the walkway, filling the air with diesel and tempting the stomach and wallet with fresh fried goodness. The sun beats down, sweat and body odor makes being packed like sardines unpleasant. Pineapple halves are filled with sorbet by three overwhelmed college students, the line to the tropically decorated truck reaching far past the offensive wall of portapotties. Alcohol and illegal substances are openly consumed, a sea of people protecting us from security, who are occupied with talking down a half naked man using a tree as the best seat in the house. The bass surrounds us, our hearts synchronizing to the beat. Thousands surround me yet when I make eye contact with the lead singer I am the only one being performed to.
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AuthorI'm Emma. This is for a class. ArchivesCategories |