On the fifth day of the Woodford Festival I decided that a five day festival was too long. On the sixth day I mourned the loss of twenty concurrent stages and strange sweltering wandering in a sheen of sweat through smiling thousands with a cigarette in one hand and a joint in the other.
Rain rained itself through my mobile phone transforming all communications to steam and the miracle of static silence. I am still somewhere in Queensland deep in Superman's family nest where they all know from eyebrow to eyebrow the ways of one another. The air is more viscous than honey, thick with light and particles of water. I could convert myself to steam or the kind of warm mud clinging thickly round fetlocks in brown dams.
Water in the air does something to the light so everybody opts for beige, just to be safe, except of course for me. I'll keep notes, I'll look at these Queenslanders with their hats and singlets and everywhere lack of shoes. Three more days and I'm coming back.
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