The peaceful woodsy song of crickets is rather like a chainsaw in an echo chamber when it is being belted out by the choir that moved into my hut. Crickets are everywhere. I do not want to step on them, but I cannot fly. I wear shoes at all times so that I will not feel them when they shatter. They nap in my toilet hole and spring to life when I appear. I can not roll over in bed without being stabbed by a severed leg. I never find the rest of their corpses, only their sharp pointy legs. Do they grow wings? Last night one hopped into my pajamas to wake me. After I finally pushed it out, I underestimated how close it was; when I let my hand fall back down on my matress I heard the poor thing crunch. As I was playing a Bach Partita today, with one sitting on my shoulder and another creeping up my calf, I went cross-eyed watching a cricket amble across my violin.