It’s a particularly courageous stance to take, given that drugs flow like water at festivals like these.
After the reggae, there is the silent disco(i.e. you’re given headphones with two channels, so, ultimately, two people dancing next to each other can actually be listening to two completely different songs ). And after a few more acts, it quickly gets well into the wee hours. Before we know it, it’s time to slosh through the ankle-deep muck back to the tent.
By the end of day 3, there are four soaking wet, squashed sardines in my tent, all of whom shift endlessly and mutter under their breaths about how uncomfortable they are. We are like frustrated children after a long day at a theme park; we’ve had too much fun, have eaten too much junk food, and – cranky, tired, and wet – we just want to go home.
On day 4, I’m home, safe and sound. But as the day begins to wind down, I wonder if I’ll feel a little lonesome tonight in my warm, comfy bed all by myself.
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