No festival for this hombre!
In!
It’s a desolate place. Millions of empty hotdog wrappers litter the ground with their tell-tale mustard-yellow and kethup-red stains; squished paper cups, empty popcorn boxes, cigarette butts; occasional dog poop ... but no people other than the carnies who have dropped their friendly smiles and locked down their rides and “attractions” ... somehow weary and dangerous at the same time. Nothing real, yet all too real. The crows have arrived. They feast.
Such is Festival.