Batting around the bedroom slowly beating themselves to death

When I was a kid Christmas beetles were the sound of summer -- not gentle summer, which is the noise doves make, but searing, flattening heat. The hotter it got, the louder the Christmas beetles would screech in the trees until it all blended into one slightly trippy sort of singing noise in the head. That's the way I remember it, anyway; I could be making it up. Crickets were the sound of starlight and peace. I can't remember when last I heard a cricket in the city.

But in Cape Town, Christmas beetles are a different thing entirely. I've never heard one sing, the same way I never saw one of the singers, but I'm convinced they're different animals because their entire being is so otherwise. They're round and brown and innocuous-looking, the teddy bears of the insect world. And they're stupid. Yes, I know all insects are stupid, but these more than most. They get into the house and then they fly around the bedroom all night, going "bzzzz... thud... thud... thud... bzzz.... thud.... silence" and then starting all over again. They're worse than mosquitoes. Sometimes in the morning I find dead or sluggish beetles tangled in the curtains and I toss them outside, but I wish they'd stay outside to start with.