During our recent, year-long pandemic imprisonment, my room - which, objectively, is a very nice room - seemed to transform, late-nights, into a tomb. I had to open all the windows just to feel like I could breathe.

Night after night, when the lights were out, I’d lay perfectly still, perfectly awake until all-hours, listening to crickets. There must be a billion of them in Georgia.

Persistent consciousness can drive you mad.

“Why are your windows open?”, my mom would say, hurrying to close them in winter (to save heat) and summer (to save cool).

I wouldn’t argue - I’d just shrug, wordlessly and reopen them once she left. I seldom argue anymore - I surreptitiously do whatever I want to.