I hear the frogs quacking in the river.
I hear cars whooshing by on the narrow roads below my window.
I hear the television chattering in the room next door.
I hear the mosquito trying to latch itself to my ear.
I hear the Islamic call to prayer, its eerie undulations rippling over the river from Bosnia.
I hear the creaks and groans of this old hotel, the doors opening and closing.
I hear the crickets calling.
I hear the steady rise and fall of my breathing, the erratic tapping of my fingers on the keyboard, and the gentle breeze stirring the gauzy curtains that separate my private room from the provincial world outside.
I hear my dreams calling me to sleep.