Here I am, awake at three o'clock in the morning, all the windows open, smelling the cool, jasmine-scented air. The crickets are still chirping, but the night is otherwise quiet except for an occasional car passing on a nearby road. The cat is curled in sleep, her paws covering her face. She has chosen to sleep under the desk lamp, the only light burning in the house. Outside only that lamp's light escaping my window interrupts the darkness of the street. All the other houses lie hidden, lacking even even moonlight to draw them from the shade the stars are too faint to dispel. No breeze stirs the unseen leaves. The waking crickets might have thoughts, but those may or may not be like mine. Do crickets think particular moments perfect, I wonder?