Dressed in knee high boots and a short cotton dress a small girl in a big crowd smokes one lonely cigarette right down to the filter. A guitar howls and a voice speaks somewhere near it, the crowd inhaling and exhaling to the beat of a bongo drum. Two girls hold hands in front of her but He decides it's not ok for prime time TV. This festival left it behind though - along with insular technology hair product high heels and the herald sun. Dry sunshine and smokey happy connections - reaching, grasping for another on the dry grass - sunk into everyone's clothing and secretly in the real world, you'd never want to wash it out. The girl with the cigarette felt half naked in the summer air, so she loosened her body with heartfelt guitar and let herself move with the wind. It felt perfect. Life, in all its complexities, was carried away by the crowd, and as her heart smoothed calm to every part of her, she felt lighter than before. Broken tiles in a suburban kitchen, open hearts on 70's leather couches, open legs in forced silence and lyrical suicides, all floated in the warm breeze. Belonging by excommunication with a whole group of nothing. And everyone - everyone was for that moment more than their disease, more than their sexuality, more than the colour of their skin or the cut of their clothes. She looked to the sky but wouldn't let it define her. With the painful, slow motion beauty of contempary dance and background novellas she watched them fall, perfect symmetry and the free swoop of nature's eagle, leaving people washing around her like the stormy sea.
