If only. You are really in a place and time where the function and purpose of sunglasses remain but a brow-wrinkling abstraction. You are stranded on the tundra, winter behind you, winter before you, no end to winter in sight. I've reflected on how to light a fire in the arctic desert and found that serial grumpiness is a damp match. So I called on my inner philosopher, who actually just wanted to crawl back into bed, and that in turn made me think of hibernation. An absolutely rational and biologically sound institution. Unfortunately impractical. But in a broader sense, I realized, it's exactly right. Rather than fighting for more energy and a sunnier outlook, let things rest and darken and germinate. Adopt a sexy Russian pessimism and an expression of slight contempt, and although you don't smoke, assume the attitude of someone just about to absentmindedly hand-roll a cigarette and smoke it with a hazy look of despair in his eye. What you'd really be doing underneath the ice is a sort of hibernation-dream, healthy and necessary for sprouting in the spring, featuring fragments of your life in the sun (right: you could alternatively adopt the airs of a 17th century vampire)-- like this one.
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