PITCHFORK MUSIC FESTIVAL: DAY THREE
My eyelids crack through a layer of sleep-slime and push open. It’s nine o’clock in the morning and I come-to on my living room couch, fully clothed in my dank and smoky festival threads; one arm dangling off the seat cushion brushing the rug below me, the other tingling half-asleep and contorted under my stomach. I sit up, accepting an explosive rush of blood, shooting thousands of prickly stabs through my poor, defenseless brain.
