The morning after, page sale we bike out to the smoldering embers of the Burn, and we glean for souvenirs.
Most prized among us early-Sunday ash-diggers are melted blobs of the Burning Man‘s neon veins.
Twelve hours ago, you could still grasp the electrodes of a galvanometric device hookup that measured your pulse and send it up to the Man – and watch as the signals made his heart beat in time with yours.
Now, you hold his bloodstream in your hand – forever ruined, catalyzed and reincarnated by fire.
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