Zoe Nightingale

It's the last day of Burning Man and I am wandering through the skeletal remains of the Robot Heart graveyard. The sun has just come up, and the sky is an orgy of orange. As I stare and wonder about the wasted potential of this generation and watch drug fueled men chase beautiful costume queen Instagram addicts, I feel two very large hands on my bear chest. I look to find the source of the foreign intruder and it belongs the glowing Cherub like face of Miles Matthewson. A man so full of the kind of innocent silly positive energy that you instantly sort of fall in love with his lackadaisical carefree white privilege. I met him wearing a panda onesie wandering the furthest outreaches of deep playa and in order to not become another extinct bear I have zipped it down all the way to my cervix (exposing my bear chest) So there I was winding my own business for ONCE and was stopped by this Adonis like man and his super cool east London girlfriend (she wasn't even dressed up she was in like cool brunch clothes and o