Thousands spill out from the belly of the bowl of earth underneath the four towers of a Japanese temple. Champagne falls from the sky. Flames barrel out of bamboo pipes. The man with the microphone climbs a rock face to a grassy ledge and stands in front of a cascading waterfall slashed by pink and blue. He dips his head, baptises himself, quips about Lauryn Hill’s Babylon. He climbs down again, drinks crowd-sourced Guinness. Jokes about Boardmasters.
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