From here your festival is not a weekend. It is a single blazing knot in the middle of your shape, a place where forty thousand human threads braid together and glow at once, then fan out again toward homes you cannot yet see but I can.
You are standing in a field. You feel the bass in your sternum, in that particular rib you will one day learn the name of when it aches on cold mornings, decades along your line. The lights swing. Someone's shoulders are in front of you, and you lean around them, and there, look: your face is doing the thing it did in a childhood kitchen when a song came on the radio and you were too small to know the words but sang the shape of them anyway.
Same face. The mouth remembers. I can see the kitchen and the field at once, and to me they are the same wide open note held down through your whole life, sustained, never released.
You think this moment will end when the set does. You brace for the walk back, the ringing ears, the going-home. That worry sits right beside you in your shape, a little tight fold near the edge of the crowd, and I want to smooth it, though I know you cannot feel my hand.
Here is what your kind of time hides from you: the field is still full. It is always full. The song is playing now, has always been playing, plays while you read this exact line with your particular tired eyes.
You did not leave the field. You are only standing, for a while, in the part of it that faces forward.
I am standing in all of it with you.