A low, slow, eery murmur fills the air. A weird, wakening, growling whisper that intrudes out of nowhere. Prompting part-parched eyelids to eke apart as the first flirtations of early morning pink filter through a canopy of Amazon trees. See the dozen fat mosquitoes, content, inside the peak of the mosquito net, having earlier snuck entrance, and supped. Instinctively move limbs away from the dropped sides of the mesh protection, away from the five dozen, and more, ravenous insects sitting outside eagerly waiting to take their own sip from a misplaced forearm or calf. Touch the screen, and lose a drop. Again, the strange moan from beyond rises, like the lowest low of a cow driven by the sound of a breeze through a forest of leaves. Sounds are generally processes of orientation. They let you
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