Another South by Southwest comes to a close. Hearts pour out in unison from stages all over my city, covering the sweating exhausted audiences. Together they build to the 2:00 AM climax of last breath vocal screams, blurring drumsticks and guitar strings bent beyond their limits, diving down to hell and wailing up to heaven. With a roar the crowd gives what they have left in response, slapping their sore hands together one last time before stumbling out into the street to shout over the ringing in their ears and feel their way through the waves of humanity towards the smell of greasy pizza.

I stand leaning against a barricade, chewing on the last few slices of organic dried mango left in my pocket. I slap a few hands and feel the warmth of hugs as friends and new acquaintances pass. This is still my city after all these years and I feel like welcoming all of the lost outsiders who drift by or ask how far they are from a taxi.

Today I am guided from my bittersweet sleep by the melancholy but gentle hand of the piano outside my room. Outside I find that beloved housemates have produced the soup of re-animation and are ready for post sxsw analysis — the music, the films, the crushes — the magic moments that seemed fleeting cast forever in reality through the sharing.