I love hiking in the hills not far from my house. I'm invested in my hikes. Sometimes kids go up there and spray-paint over the signs; I've found a biodegradable paint cleaner, and I'll scrub the signs so they're nice and clean.
Time becomes a stutter-the space between drumbeats, splintered into fragments, and also endlessly long, as long as soaring guitar notes that melt into one another, as full as the dark mass of bodies around me. I feel like the air downstairs has gone to liquid, to sweat and smell and sound, and I have broken apart in it. I am wave: I am pulled into the everything. I am energy and noise and a heartbeat going boom, boom, boom, echoing the drums.