A scene plays itself out. Played out a thousand million times before, but every year there's a new class eager to watch, and the young faces keep the old ones entertained.
Some consider it depressing how repetitive it can all get.
The darkness, the blaring sound, the frequent libations, the din of nicotine and yearning and lost causes amalgamated into one blearing syrup that cuckolds the senses. Things that happen in such places are only mentioned in the rueful, smiling regret of youthful indiscretions later on.
Sometimes it takes an un-airbrushed picture to really make things clear.
Such places and such encounters alter currents with astounding celerity. But those feelings are like the spring melts that swell mountain streams. They run their course, and for the early-summer season they do run they are dangerous, unbridled, even beautiful. But they are as ephemeral as they are torrential, washed out as soon as the snow evaporates away.
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