BY THE TIME WE GOT TO WOODSTOCK ALL I WANTED WAS THE AIR. WE HAD JOKED THE JOKES, TOKED THE TOKES, I COULD SMELL IT EVERYWHERE. THE COWSHIT MADE THE POT SMELL VERDANT BUT THE ATMOSPHERE FELT SODDEN, AND OBVIOUS. INCONSEQUENTIAL COMMENTS MET WITH BLUSTERFUL REBUKE. I PHOTOGRAPHED THE SILENCE, WHICH FALSELY  COMMUNICATED SERENITY WHERE NONE EXISTED. GRASS GREW QUICKLY AND I FELT ITS NOISE, THE NOISE OF GROWTH AND PERPETUAL ACCUMULATION, WAITING FOR GRASS TO SWALLOW US BIT BY BIT, HAIR BY PRECOCIOUS HAIR, ‘TIL BREATH DOTH DEPART.