Feeling flaccid.

The place is like the aftermath of a war now, barren and decimated. A few stragglers wander aimlessly around, going through abandoned tents in the hope of finding a forgotten treasure, in contrast to the focused work buzzing about them. Everyone desperate to finish and get home as soon as possible.
The air is now filled with dust and the sound of fork lifts beep beeping as they reverse and load deconstructed tents onto waiting trucks.
Occasionally our noses are assaulted by the stench of the slammers' tanks being emptied or the acid smell of gallons of spilt stale beer in the baking tents.
Like I said to someone earlier, for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.
Love it.