The early morning sun had not yet gathered the strength to begin melting the icicles that adorned the town hall. At the far end of the deserted market square the man carefully and meaningfully lifted his shovel and pick. He took a moment to adjust to this new posture, his propioceptors working hard to establish exactly his place in this icy world. Once established, the shovel and pick rested on his shoulder. He was ready. Step by careful step he began his slow trek across the snow-covered square. Each step was the outcome of a decision, maybe not always a good decision, and one that was subject to revision by the following step as he tried desperately to remain both upright and moving at least in the approximate direction he intended. Who knows to what use this man, intoxicated so early in the morning, would put his shovel and pick? Who knows this man’s or anyone else’s private battles?