I think it's an urgent chatter, of dinner, of memories. Could they be saying something important? Should I listen to the sound, the urgent chatter of crickets? Isn't their language just as important as mine? Do they, too, get the head spins? The nauseous shivering? On nights like this... I can't help but wonder. Their cousins cry, the esoteric cicada: dull, monotonous tones. Why do cicadas cry, but cousins chatter? Is it nothing but anxious ramblings?
No, no, of course not; it is but a mere physiological spasm of alien limbs. The imagination is too much. To stop thinking, lose yourself in the cricket's urgent chatter. And when they end their summer chorus, sink so very far into yourself that you become soft like honey but still white-hot like flames. Become feverous.
And only once you fall in, can you fall out --
Make sure to remember that.