the beale street mud festival.

The houses on the hill watch gleefully, windows shining brightly through the gloom. The screaming of the winds the only sound, other than the roar of the huddled masses. Lightly breaking upon the brim of a straw hat, the rain seems to be slowly tapering. Still, the sheet covered electronics sleep, with no intention of coming to life. The river moves quickly past, and glowing with the light from the listless stage. Clouds continue to carry the sky on their backs, and offer no hope of a moonlit evening. There can be do debating that it is time to go, for there will be no music in the park tonight. Still, there is something quite amusing about two thousand assholes standing ankle-deep in mud and the driving rain ...to see Journey.