Every summer in Japan, the humidity becomes unbearable. The sun, a blistering fireball of unrestrained love and anger. Then they appear, hiding in the shadows, these little brown omens of auditory doom. These are the larval cicada. No wings. Just brown and icky. These little husks I've never seen occupied, but if you see one, watch the trees, though it may already be too late. The crackling and rattling and deafening tone of the cicada is about to drive you to destruction!
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