Crepuscular rays over Hell’s half acre

If there’s anybody on the outside world reading this: we’re still here. We barely made it through the night, but in the end every man in the squad returned safely to a foxhole on higher ground. We’re dug in deeply into the trenches, reporting from the front lines of a battlefield where love comes in caps & bottles, and where artillery fire goes off incessantly right by your head, at well over 120BPM – for hours and hours straight. We are giving you the hard news live from the bombing runs.

At 5AM this morning, the POSTRboys left standing were out fending for themselves. We stood bravely back to back, bewildered eyes desperately piercing the gushing darkness engulfing us on all sides. We are writing in pain, our hands and fingers battered and bruised from beating the last drums out of a party’s bleeding heart. The iron percussion of a thousand hands reached all over the festival’s emptying grounds, providing covering fire for the shellshocked souls trying to find a safe place to rest. We did not find rest. There is no rest for the wicked ones amongst the members of press, the ones who do not knock off at 2AM so they can report about the nothingness of a morning at Dour Festival.

Besides, who can rest after seeing what we’ve seen. We’re the most embedded of journalists. We’re going to try patch together a battle report from our tortured memory banks. Somewhere in between the scars and the trauma tissue, we know there were tables at a stage that wasn’t there. One of us was so brave as to risk an excursion onto the infantry encampment. Rightfully hailed as a veteran officer among younger footsoldiers, he fraternized those risking their limbs and lives without the ranking rights of a Level 5 Security Clearance. We do know that we were on a mission with the British, our trusted Allied Forces in the fight for a right to party. An extra special thanks goes to the Leeds Unit, who supported the POSTRtroops in documenting this night of calamity. Thanks to Jude with the Third Nipple, Emily the French girl and sweet, sweet Becca.

Now for some random shards of recollection.

First of all, if we did take acid, it wasn’t on purpose. Also, if we did, it was in order to serve the greater cause of Journalism. It’s a reporter’s duty to go in as deep as you can, and believe you us, we went deeper than many a man has come back from.

Whatever language you adress us in, we’re going to respond in another one. Dutch, French, English, Japanese or whatever bastard dialect concoction we feel like. Not just to fuck with your head, but mainly to maintain our cover. The only thing that ensures our safety in the battlefield is our ability to blend in, a feature that we must protect with every possible measure. Including fucking with your head.

Also, DIP.

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