The songs of crickets and cicadas feel like transmissions from another realm, an otherworldly language that humans have always tried to interpret but never quite mastered. Crickets, with their steady, pulse-like chirping, and cicadas, with their droning crescendos, compose a kind of music that is at once familiar and alien, like the heartbeat of a world parallel to our own.

These sounds are fundamentally tied to time itself—crickets chirp faster or slower based on temperature, a natural metronome attuned to the shifting warmth of dusk and night. Cicadas, with their cyclical emergence every few years, turn entire landscapes into ephemeral orchestras, their collective buzz swelling and ebbing like waves.

Listening to these insect symphonies is to experience a rhythm that does not adhere to human logic. Their songs are more like natural algorithms—patterns that seem to have a purpose, yet one that remains elusive to us. It’s as if they are singing secrets about the nature of reality itself, secrets that we can hear but not translate.