One song comes on, you’re stroking my hair while I fall asleep on your shoulder. Lost somewhere in moving boxes I find a CD. Summersol, I read it but don’t recognise it. Until I play the album and let the songs take me back to Burning Man. Hiding away in a dark circus tent to flee from afternoon desert heat. The tent is packed, shimmering sweaty bodies dancing slowly. Not able to move faster: the heat is unbearable, clothing impossible, the music allows only for you to melt.
Bottles of champagne fill glasses pushed into our hands. Stay hydrated, she smiles. She is naked under a layer of golden paint. A lady with long black hair wearing nothing but a long black skirt climbs on top of the piano. She starts to play the violin and we all watch in awe. Grapes dangling over our faces: bite, they’re sweet. I recognise the girl who is feeding us fruit. Burlesque dancer, Vogue model. Everyone is everything. This is the gypsy circus, where freaks are bathed in glitter, where water turns to champagne. The DJ hands me a CD. Summersol, I read and forget. Until one rainy day in Brussels, I close my eyes and go back.