Ten years ago, Seth and I were college students sitting in the back row of the indie cinema in Columbia, Missouri, waiting to be moved in a language we did not understand. It began with sacred music: an old tourist clicking his camera to capture the marvels of Rome at high noon—then dropping to the ground, killed by the overwhelming beauty. We then fell into the grandest and most unforgettable of party scenes, an ostentatious, almost unending celebration of the old pretending they are still young, draping themselves in costumes, music and vulgarity.
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