Snow drifted down, in great wet clumps that blinded you if you were out long enough. Not a sinner graced the bars, and my mother-in-law closed early. The next day, the snow had melted away, except on the mountain, a reminder of white night. In the tiny cemetary around the corner, among the ruins of the town's first Protestant church, the body of a man, my age, was found, discovered in the morning by a woman peering out of her kitchen window.
So much is going on, and I'm tired of opinions, even the sound of my own voice, giving an opinion. I might take Marcus Aurelius's advice: "You are not compelled to form any opinion about this matter before you, nor to disturb your peace of mind at all. Things in themselves have no power to extort a verdict from you."