You’re nineteen years old and you’re at Coachella, the sickest festival there is.
Surrounded by palm trees and babes, your worries melt away. You don a rhinestone bra and smoke blunts with abandon. You share freely with strangers, and others share with you. It’s liberating. Having left “the real world,” you find it bitter by comparison; why aren’t we always this happy, so wild and free? When Beyoncé performs, you transcend your human body.
The crowd becomes one, and you think you’ve found utopia.