when this used to be my playground

The graveyard shift at the Dance Centre has turned out to be a gig baby-sitting a minirave. The people attending are all familiar, even the strangers, as their archetypes blend and shift and phase in one conglomerate whole, typical for this, marked with obvious accoutrements from west coast music fests. It's been a long time since I felt part of this tribe, nevertheless, I know them.

I should have made a clothing based bingo card, mapped the psychographic ahead of time. Crystal jewelry, face-paint, dreadlocks mixed with braids, celtic knots, seams on the outside, elf tipped hoods, button up shoes. Bonus points for the guy who always arrives in a tuxedo and the girl who always looks like an army-boot goth with a glitter dot in the middle of her forehead, right in the spot where her third eye would be if only the drugs worked as perfectly as advertised.