Snowed in, Day 7: If you are reading this, it is because I have finally succumbed to an ice-induced madness. Like Wallace Stevens’ snow man, I have grown “a mind of winter.” No longer do I recall what three-dimensional humans look like, nor the sound of voices not mitigated through the telephone. My fingers have become like icicles, my body like the branches bowed low beneath the weight of 10,000 snowflakes. Though I long to have once more tasted coffee not brewed by my own frozen hands, or vegetables that have not sat in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator so long they all begin to taste the same, alas, it is too late for me. Do not send a sled team laden with shovels to dig me out or cake to ease the pain of my imprisonment. Save yourselves. I am one with the snow. I and the snow are one. One we shall be, forevermore.