Camden was crawling. Layers of movement. Broken drums and torn posters. I slipped through like a ghost with too many eyes. Incineration Festival — the name fit. Batushka lit the place with incense and dread. Blood Incantation cut through the static with high-speed ritual. I was in the thick of it, drinking too much, talking to everyone and no one. Manic. Foaming at the edges.
Felt like a sermon being delivered inside a strobe.