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, it