You can’t place your finger on it, but between the sunny global warmed summers, to the funky people we meet with supercalafragalisticexpialadoshucal subcultures that make for awesome sessions with borderline Rasta’s. A time when he sons of peasants mix with the daughters of kings in the flashing darkness of the longest street in town. Or the cool south easterly breeze fanning you as you find yourself on the 4th beach people travel the world to see. 
I can’t put my finger on it but with each beat of my heart as the blood filled with inebriation flows drop by drop through the ventricles of my body. I lose my cares, can’t feel my face, crack a smile stretching from ear to ear. The music waves its way into my aura, my body becomes susceptible to the sounds of the music man. 
But we can’t put our fingers on it but it’s the feeling in the air as the young night turns old, the faraway morn becomes close, the flashes in the darkness dim and the music silences My smile still vivid, happiness in heart, I farm together my comrades we march orderly to the metal box of transportation. We begin the voyage home we began sharing stories that’ll grow gold as our souls age, it’ll always be remembered in our mental as the good old days and we can’t put our finger on it but it’s the night of life.
"love is not just a verb its you looking in the mirror"
burt_the_ert
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