Outside, the wind blew grit against the backs of my legs. Still not turning in for the night, I went toward the music tents at the far edge of the festival grounds. An hour previous they had been filled with tens of thousands of people, but now the only evidence of human life were thousands of empty water bottles and, at the EDM tents, discarded glowsticks. The glowsticks still gleamed determinedly against the dusty dark, as if asking for one last dance.
Heading toward the exit, the wind gusted and things flew across my path: a broken pair of sunglasses, more glowsticks, an empty bag that had once held festival enhancing supplements. Passing an art installation where all weekend men had pretended to be hippopotamus astronauts, a sea of yellow jerseys came into view: hundreds of festival workers going home for the night. All weekend I had only encountered them one at a time, I could not believe they were so many of them. They looked a little like migrating penguins themselves.
Outside the walls of the festival at the campgrounds, the wind was even stronger. The tops had been ripped off the gazebo-style tents and their skeletal frames lay clustered in piles. Those tents that had been fully secured danced like those inflatable men you see outside of used car lots. A few stoic DJs provided a dubstep soundtrack to the scene, which seemed appropriate.