The buzz of the helicopter rings in her ears through the plush headphones provided by the pilot. Paris loves to be creative, and she thinks for a moment about how she might describe that sound—loud?—du-du-du-du, but really fast?—before becoming distracted by a new photo she was tagged in on Instagram. The photo is fine, she thinks.
Paris doesn’t know that much about Burning Man, but everyone said she should go, and she’s an Aquarius, so she said “okay” and bought a bunch of desert-y looking Versace dresses. She wonders vaguely if she needed anything else. Her assistant turns to her, yelling something about how the celebrity camp she’s staying at has barely any dust. Paris stares at her, hands clenched over a tattered copy of Living in the Moment by Gary Null.
Her blonde braids, tight and unfamiliar, sling lightly over her shoulders; she imagines this is what every day felt like for Pocahontas, who she is almost positive she’s related to, and who would definitely go to Burning Man if she were alive right now. Life is exciting, she tells herself quietly, and she is excited by all the exciting things that are happening. She lets out a long sigh.
Outside her window, Black Rock City appears on the horizon, shimmering in the heat. “Um?” she asks.
