This week my period came on alarmingly strong. For a day or so I reeked of blood, a crime scene walking itself around town. My asshole visitor encourages the foulest of moods and the darkest thoughts. Often I catch myself clenching my jaw, or stroking a newly chipped molar with my tongue.

To divert my attention from my period and the inhumanity of these times, I practice Irish (is Calafoirniach mé), order more books from the library or a local bookshop, and take frequent walks despite the ever inclement weather.

If I felt joy recently... it was when I saw a master of the mohan veena, or Indian slide guitar, silver thumb and index finger glinting in the viscous dark, glance at his bangla drummer with a beatific smile so infectious I thought of that idea—who voiced it?—all music aspires to utopia.

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