Twice last night. Running with music that drowned them in a sea of guitars. Then biking home. At 1 in the morning, along a thinly moonlit road, the crickets were chirping from deep in thickets where the cold night couldn’t quite punch through the summer-warmed soil and brush. But I couldn’t hear them for all of the self questioning and reprimanding and doubting I was doing. Letting a quiet night slip by with myself self-strung on the rack with a thick pleasure-proof mantle. Such a racket.