In one week I will be arriving back at Black Rock City. I will step upon a dried-out lake bed, and walk with adventure and reverie. Every step I take will unearth dust, a year dormant, that has been witness to two decades of fantastical sights and sounds.
Dust will storm. Blistering heat and freezing cold will play tug-of-war with the day. There will be great lightness and also great darkness; sonorous sunrises and somber sunsets. It will be a time of boisterous revelry and quiet contemplation.
Ecstasy and agony. Unable to know which is which.
I start the journey back by recalling where it ended, so many days ago:
"We survived the Temple Burn, where charred cinders and falling flames rained down upon us like slow falling snow set ablaze. We survived the voluminous and vile showers of vomit and bile that threatened our heads at the Man. We braved sandstorms on psychotropic substances, passing pirate ships sinking in desert sands. We watched the Man burn, all with hands in hand. We sang songs to give life to the sun in the dead of night, til our eyes grew heavy and we bid the night goodnight; all of these distant memories, dance in foreign lands where they prance and play in the singing sand."
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