I stood at my kitchen counter and, with a sense of fear and dread, watched my hand tremble as I went to cut off my FEST wristband. The wristband was fluorescent pink with the word LOVE emblazoned in a semantic shouting style and bold brilliant blue flanked by the FEST logo. I realized suddenly that this was not a combination of synthesized plastics and ink. No longer an apparatus for admittance doubling as a forearm accessory. But an abstract representation that all the love you could ever need can be found within the waning days of October amongst the buzzing sounds of peace, progress, and punk. An interpersonal paradox where every stranger is actually a friend. Outside my window, an imposing array of thunderclouds started to pass in front of the low-hanging sun. I turned the wristband so I could not see what I was about to sever myself from for another long year. A distant rumble from the darkening sky seemed to reverberate around my skull. The scissors snipped and as the wristband silently struck the countertop I felt a sharp tinge of grief that quickly devolved into an overwhelming sense of sorrow. Then everything went black.

          I came to in the University Club to the smell of stale sour sweat and sweet sativa strains; the sight of drag queens sauntering around like supermodels, their irrepressible aura wafting behind them to mix and mingle with the artificial fog and expand to every corner of the building; the touch of my dirty white low-top Converse rhythmically contacting a dance floor slick with spilled PBR and tears of ecstasy; the sound of laughter, both gentle and giant, backdropped by a bass player plucking warm-up riffs; and a sense of life.

          I came to at the Civic Media Center to the taste of cold liquid death and vegan nah dogs smothered in Fritos and chili; the smell of tens of thousands of pieces of print paper nestled on shelves and transmuting into repositories of wisdom and philosophy; the touch of an uncabled microphone clutched in a fist, dead and cold now but alive and warm soon; the sight of two molecules so compatible the chemistry instantly intertwines them into a double helix; and a sense of life.

          I came to behind the barricade at Bo Diddley Plaza to the sight of a tsunami of people swelling and rocking, swaying and churning; to the touch of exalted joy emanating from the brave souls surfing these waves as I welcome them safely to shore; the sound of the mosh pit maelstrom, it’s violent turmoil creating chaotic energy while claiming no casualties; the smell of a sea of thousands, everything and nothing at once; and a sense of life.

          I came to sitting at a table outside Loosey’s to the taste of truffle fries, ranch dressing, and phantom kisses not yet manifested; the sight of flocks of friends weaving through the crowd in concert like starling murmurations; the touch of the setting Florida sunrays angling under an umbrella to warm my skin; the sound of greeting an old comrade and introducing a new friend; and a sense of life.

          I came to laying on a soft bed in a red brick house to the smell of clean sheets and dirty sex; to the sound of a purring cat kneading my chest with her claws; to the sight of an artist who herself is a work of art; to the touch of a magnet with instant attraction; and a sense of life.

          I woke up on the floor of my kitchen to the sound of a Wilhelm scream; the smell of iron roses; the touch of barbed wires; the sight of Bong Mountain; the taste of candy hearts; the sound of streetlight manifestos; the smell of meth rats; the touch of waterglass; the sight of boss’ daughter; the taste of hot water music; the sound of confession kids; the smell of mustard plug; the touch of troubled minds; the sight of wolf-face; the taste of cobra skulls; the sound of thunderclap; the smell of Spanish needles; the touch of knives; the sight of middle-aged queers; the taste of glazed; the sound of bouncing souls; the sight of plastic flamingos; the touch of broken bottles, empty hearts; the sight of damage done; the sound of curse words; and a sense of life.

          Wearily, and with hips still sore from a weekend of almost continuous bipedal movement and severe ass shaking, I grasped the kitchen counter and slowly pulled myself upright. Several hours had seemingly passed as sunlight was now filtering in through the windows. The leaves and grass glistened with moisture like traps for tears. The sorrow that had sent me spiraling into that suspension of reality remained but, like those remnants of rain, would quickly evaporate. As I reached for the cut wristband my hand began to tremble again, but not from fear or dread. I smiled, and felt a sense of LOVE.

                               See, hear, smell, taste, and touch you all next year ❤️