The sun doesn't rise, in the expected sense. It breaks the horizon, moving laterally, and traces a low path just above the southern skyline. And after it sets, the sun continues its shallow sweep, tracing the same arc, now just below the horizon. The hushed minutes of sunset stretch into hours, each color of pastel and bruise lingering in the sky.
It's a Monday, so in the Big House, Guy has the lights on, and is cooking dinner for the crew. He's probably frying chicken: we descended to the freezer trench last night to hunt down the chili powder and lemon juice he needed for a marinade. Steam from the kitchen exhaust fan is carried on the wind, a haze out to the right. In this environment, steam freezes within moments. You can hear the difference when you purse your lips and exhale: a low, rumbling murmur as if from a mammoth creature. This frozen fog persists, to drift almost endlessly, each breath creating a cloud that travels far out across the ice.
