It looks like it is beginning to storm. It is the signal to begin the ancient rite. Some ritualists grab for keys and rush to the parking lot, fearing that even a single drop of rainwater will melt their steering wheels. But others simply saunter, glad to escape the walls and halls of modern life and breathe fresh air. The storm nears.
Thunder rumbles, the rain begins to fall.
And throughout the land there is a brief respite from business and bother, from artificial lights and committee tables, from the standard order of the day, as individuals, the curse of everyday drudgery temporarily off their heads, close their car windows, feel the wind upon their faces, and smile.