Winter in Vermont is dark. My alarm wakes me up at 5:50 in the morning, and my 4-year-old daughter (who has often managed, at some point, to crawl into bed with me) opens her eyes and says, "But it's still night." And I can't help but agree with her. It is pitch black outside, it is tough to distinguish between reality and dream, and every cell in my body wants to fold back in on itself and sleep. The landscape of darkness is fatiguing. In its vast and seemingly endless sameness - no visible contours, no rises and falls, no shades of color - it is tough to find a sense of possibility. Of curiosity. Of hope.
But of course darkness - like all things - is relative. Vermont may seem dark to me, but I haven't been buried beneath the steel and plaster and wood of a hospital that has fallen in an earthquake.
In Darkness, by Nick Lake, begins with Shorty, trapped beneath ...
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