For me, there is nothing darker, nothing bleaker, nothing more conducive to wrist-slitting than a New England winter. Ice, ice, and more ice. Everything looks like the end of a nuclear war. Dig stuff out of the ice, oh hey, guess what: Gotta do it again the next morning. And then later comes the slush. Puddle after puddle of brown, muddy, slushy water with soggy pieces of paper floating in it. My blood circulation dies as soon as it drops to 50 degrees, and my hands are purple from November until late May. I just lie comatose next to the window in the evening and set my Gregorian chants on repeat while the sun sets at frigging FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON.