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Ele-Beth Little is a recently qualified Philosophy Lecturer and avid journal writer. She spent her early years in Portugal, but currently
resides in England and Wales. She's obsessed with the isolated nature of consciousness, spontaneous discussion with strangers,
sexual abjection, red wine and fantasy worlds adorned with past-charms and taboo.

Blue light sprays out in to the blackness; chill air meets hot breath. Smells merge--beer, smoke, sweat. The tidal hum of thousands
of expectant voices, one eye on the stage.

The day has passed us, is behind us, full and loud. Now we're packed close, prickly shirts sting our sunburn, drums tremble upon
the foggy hills--a prelude to the dawn.

I decide impulsively I won't watch this band. I don't like them and I'm eager to get back to our field. Isn't worth standing here
amongst their keen fans, a lanky lot I don't much fit with. I tell them I'm off, and shuffle through the crowd; pressing and weaving
amongst headless bodies, feeling their heat and words.

Then, I'm on the outside, in a new crowd--only distinguishable on the basis of movement in contrast to static. Their current takes
me along the wide dust path. I walk with them, short, unattached. Bushes and bracken to the right. To the left, the pyramid stage
with dancing light beams, black bobbing heads, and pockets of torches and glow sticks. The crowd becomes patchy in the distance,
sat in circles round fires, which fades out to the black tent-cluttered hills.

We're moving fast, weaving under the arch of a branch that marks an entrance to boggy toilet ground. Large lads in puffed out
jackets march in front of me yelling "E! LSD!"

Drums pulsing louder, whistles, screeches, laughter, mingling in the blue tinged air. A line of men pee into the bushes--they stretch
as far as my horizon. Shadows dance in manic flickers around bins that look like oil drums set on fire. Many hold an instrument.
Rattling, pipes, the shriek of '
Tequila', shoulders touching mine. Torches light the inside of tents like wombs; luminous orange
exudes, along with lolling tired conversation between friends squished up too closely.

Kids run in the mud, in ripped jumpers to their knees and dirty legs, pans dangle above fires, wood-smoke obscures the
stars--congealing in to a protective dome.

I make a sharp turn to a lonelier path, then begin my awkward clamber over guide-ropes, past colourful decorated metal bins, flags,
and strings of rainbow-rags.

The screams and laughter seem to have sunk over the hill--where the drum beats still rumble as if within the bowels of the earth.
Faint whispers and low murmurs dotted around my half-blind blackness. The strobes illuminate and pierce the wood-smoke that has
drifted up to the moon.
Ele-Beth Little
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