What the Other Guy is Going Through:
The cricket had me to itself. It seems that was the way it wanted it, carrying on so in the middle of the night with noone else around, talking with its legs (as I suspect some of us do in our own way), and in the foreign language of its own happiness or anxiety. I pretended to be interested, as we often do, but had a broom and my own agenda. It went on chirping in a harm-or-harmless way. I went on poking like someone reaching out to stab-or-pat a hand. And so it went, and so it ended (as it so often does even within members in same series) with notice given, patience spent, and not much gain in understanding.