Within the hour, much of the youth and would-be youth of Oslo would travel by bus, car, train, or foot to beaches and bonfires, to their sacred places, places constructed of light, music, chemicals, and the movement of their near-perfect bodies, where for the rest of the unnaturally bright night, they would feel as though they were more than a stream of bio-electrical impulses, more than a cluster of memories and experiences, more than the letters in their name, or their one-hundred-twenty-five-word social media biography, that they were limitless and unique, that their sensations were more real than anyone’s had ever been. And the spaces between them would fill up with a pounding, electronic sort of music, an unfortunate misuse of mathematics, and they would dance on and on in the descending light, dimming more and more with the birth and decay of each self-replicating beat.
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