I live in a country of Cicadoidea, or commonly known as the cicada.
They are loud, obnoxious little suckers. Like clockwork, they chirrup after the sun has set and they'll be there help wake you up by sing a morning melody in the morning.
Why they are everywhere, but you hardly ever see one, and honestly you don't really want to. If you happen to see one, it'll probably fly into your face - I've seen it happen on more than one occasion. And then, there's the play dead cicada. Just the other day, there was a cicada the size of a half-dollar coin lying on its back as I parked my bicycle in my garage. I was cautious to not beckon its awakening. Looking closely, I was able to confirm, yes, the little bugger was still moving its legs. The next day when I went to take out my bicycle, it had already left. This little vagrant reminded me of the men (or sometimes foreigners without cash) who sleep in a box outside of Tokyo train stations.
Whatever works as shelter, I suppose. My garage is kind of like a capsule hotel room, minus the telly, but definitely classier than a box.
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