This will hurt me...

So there I was, arm hooked up to the machine, watching my plasma swirl away into a bag while the morning news dribbled across the screen like a bad fever dream. And what were they showing? A "riot" in Melbourne, allegedly. The sort of riot where the real thugs wear body armour, carry pepper spray and look like they just walked off the set of RoboCop. The people they were beating? A ragtag crew of teenagers and old hippies—probably fresh out of a drum circle, still smelling of patchouli. But sure, let's call it a riot. Now, here's where it really gets good. I mentioned this spectacle to a few people later, thinking maybe they'd share my outrage or, at the very least, give a damn. But no. What did I get instead? A smirk, a chuckle, and—oh, the pièce de résistance—"You should really just let it go." Let it go? Yeah, let me uncork a nice, overpriced cup of coffee, sit back with my legs crossed, and soak in the latest reality TV trash. Why bother caring when ...

  Night light. The road to Whyalla, South Australia. Listening to Music, Getting Horny The air is acerbic, bitter, abominable in its annoyance— but then, the music. It hums, a mellifluous aurora, diaphanous as gossamer, sliding into my ears with astonishing aplomb. I do not want to be here, beleaguered by the banalities of daily life—its atrocious hullabaloo, the appalling humdrum—but the sound, the sound is different. It is always different. The beat is a clandestine caress, as capricious as it is compelling. I feel it move through me, not delicately, no. It hits with a benevolent violence, awakening something deeply familiar. An ineffable ache stirs, somewhere between ribcage and hips, a strange, sublime longing that becomes suddenly unavoidable. It is this: the music touches, then taunts—now casual, now intense, now furious, moving like lithe fingers across skin. My thoughts blur, my body answers. A dreadful conundrum: to sit still or to feel everything. The melody does not care...