In the morning I am awakened by what I assume are ambulances but which are allegedly cicadas. My left ankle is swollen with two mosquito bites. I suffer from “skeeter syndrome,” which means mosquito bites on my skin distend to tumoral degrees and erupt in tiny welts.

He made two piles of clothes even steven and let me pick which one I wanted.

In narrow marina berths, tightly closed blinds are a defense against everything from bash-and-grab thieves to peeping toms.

Secondly, there is an enthusiasm for crowded confrontational scenes — what amounts to an intellectual agoraphilia, one which will climax in Areopagitica.