Přišli jsme, viděli jsme a nedokázali jsme se ani pohnout. Byli jsme umlčeni hlukem i zábavou. Připadalo nám to kouzelné a přitom prokleté. Procitli jsme! Musíme žít!
BaraCornellia
Beer, friends, music, good times, bad times, drunk times. Some of my best musical experiences are from festivals, e.g. my first Gogol Bordello gig.
NC
Foggy breath rose collectively from the crowd, billowous in the claustrophobia of the cold night. The already too-narrow street was packed to capacity with a mass of shivering bodies, allowing only a small, uncomfortable stream of shuffling movement to pass. Even though it was a festival, not one person in the crowd particularly felt like celebrating. Colored lanterns that hung from the arching lattice of inactive powerlines above tried to embody the cheerful spirit of the holiday but only succeeded in casting garish light that made faces more gaunt, noses more red, and eyes more sunken and hungry. Frozen wind howled down the corridor of shabby buildings, echoing the dull, discontented crunching of snow beneath thousands of feet. A rebellion was brewing, and everyone could feel it.
Foggy breath rose collectively from the crowd, billowous in the claustrophobia of the cold night. The already too-narrow street was packed to capacity with a mass of shivering bodies, allowing only a small, uncomfortable stream of shuffling movement to pass. Even though it was a festival, not one person in the crowd particularly felt like celebrating. Colored lanterns that hung form the arching lattice of inactive powerlines above tried to embody the cheerful spirit of the holiday but only succeeded in casting garish light that made faces more gaunt, noses more red, and eyes more sunken and hungry. Frozen wind howled down the corridor of shabby buildings, echoing the dull, discontented crunching of snow beneath thousands of feet. A rebellion was brewing, and everyone could feel it.
It was dark and there were hundreds of people. There was a festival and it was fun and cozy. Except for one girl. She just stood there, drinking her coke. She looked at the people, judging. All alone.
Sanne Plantinga
The fest in all the festival – the joy in feasting, best of all.
Cheering, laughing, screaming… such a joyous day. I watch the little kids run around and giggle as they play together. They act as though they have been best friends for years, but they met only an hour ago. I admire their vulnerability. I sit at a table in the lawn and hold my coffee mug in front of me, as if I am creating a barrier of protection for myself. Is it silly that the kids inspire me so much? I put down my coffee, showing that I am open and ready for a conversation. A man walks over and sits down right next to me. He has a warm smile and he looks directly into my eyes. The conversation just flows. Little did I know, that this birthday party celebration would soon become the anniversary of the day that I meet my husband.
Přišli jsme, viděli jsme a nedokázali jsme se ani pohnout. Byli jsme umlčeni hlukem i zábavou. Připadalo nám to kouzelné a přitom prokleté. Procitli jsme! Musíme žít!
Beer, friends, music, good times, bad times, drunk times. Some of my best musical experiences are from festivals, e.g. my first Gogol Bordello gig.
Foggy breath rose collectively from the crowd, billowous in the claustrophobia of the cold night. The already too-narrow street was packed to capacity with a mass of shivering bodies, allowing only a small, uncomfortable stream of shuffling movement to pass. Even though it was a festival, not one person in the crowd particularly felt like celebrating. Colored lanterns that hung from the arching lattice of inactive powerlines above tried to embody the cheerful spirit of the holiday but only succeeded in casting garish light that made faces more gaunt, noses more red, and eyes more sunken and hungry. Frozen wind howled down the corridor of shabby buildings, echoing the dull, discontented crunching of snow beneath thousands of feet. A rebellion was brewing, and everyone could feel it.
Foggy breath rose collectively from the crowd, billowous in the claustrophobia of the cold night. The already too-narrow street was packed to capacity with a mass of shivering bodies, allowing only a small, uncomfortable stream of shuffling movement to pass. Even though it was a festival, not one person in the crowd particularly felt like celebrating. Colored lanterns that hung form the arching lattice of inactive powerlines above tried to embody the cheerful spirit of the holiday but only succeeded in casting garish light that made faces more gaunt, noses more red, and eyes more sunken and hungry. Frozen wind howled down the corridor of shabby buildings, echoing the dull, discontented crunching of snow beneath thousands of feet. A rebellion was brewing, and everyone could feel it.
It was dark and there were hundreds of people. There was a festival and it was fun and cozy. Except for one girl. She just stood there, drinking her coke. She looked at the people, judging. All alone.
The fest in all the festival – the joy in feasting, best of all.
Cheering, laughing, screaming… such a joyous day. I watch the little kids run around and giggle as they play together. They act as though they have been best friends for years, but they met only an hour ago. I admire their vulnerability. I sit at a table in the lawn and hold my coffee mug in front of me, as if I am creating a barrier of protection for myself. Is it silly that the kids inspire me so much? I put down my coffee, showing that I am open and ready for a conversation. A man walks over and sits down right next to me. He has a warm smile and he looks directly into my eyes. The conversation just flows. Little did I know, that this birthday party celebration would soon become the anniversary of the day that I meet my husband.