My beard is getting too long. I noticed it yesterday at the All Day I Dream festival. Dancing with the blissful abandon of a man on a proper dose of pure, unadulterated MDMA, I had unwittingly installed myself amongst a group of dirty hippies. I hadn't realized it at first of course, due to the golden sun shining straight into my super-sized pupils, the powerful buzzing of the bass, the magic magnetism of the moment, but soon I saw that I was in leagues with a bustling bunch of happy hippies. One of them, an angelic looking blond with mesmerizing green eyes, turned and looked at me and told me how happy I looked before giving me a long and heartfelt hug. I'd found the promised land. Purple and yellow fabric flags fluttered in the breeze. Gulls glided overhead, then hovered, as though suspended by an animal curiosity more elementally powerful than the air. The music was beautifully serene, relaxingly ecstatic. Everyone smiled. I danced with them for a time, then wandered toward the setting sun and the orange shadows it cast across the San Francisco skyline. Clouds had started to roll in, spilling across the bay like melted creamsicles and lemon sherbet, lending the city lights a hazy, watercolor kind of softness. The music had an affectionate resonance, one that kept the night warm. It picked the locks of all the doors fear and misfortune force us to hide our hearts behind. Like a cuddlesome cat, gently brushing against our skin and purring, it nestled against something deep and cold and sat with it. It's been some time since I felt that much love at a show.
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