The “hibernacle” is a winter retreat, a refuge; also, the place where hibernators hibernate. My spirit critter would aestivate, not hibernate (since summer is my suicidal season), but my spirito-animality isn’t my focus today. With some of the hottest winters on record, where is your hibernacle this year? Retreating like the ice, I assume. North eventually zeroes out into a singularity. Where’s the human species’s hibernacle? Where in the dark era? Where in forever’s frosty frazzle? 

There are various flavors of refuge. Original Flavor—that’s soil, i.e. total decomposition. Extreme Cheddar—God’s lactation, i.e. heaven. Paprika—something foreign, maybe German (Valhalla, et al.). Low Sodium—(I consider it a flavor) offenseless hesitationism. There are too many to catalogue here. My current favorite flavor is a home-made concoction I call “zenithism,” which hits somewhere between Zesty Ranch and Flamin’ Hot Polytheism. My hibernacle is Flamin’ Zesty. 

What was it that Pascal wrote about our infinitesimally small hibernacle? Ah, yes, this: “Let man, returning to himself, consider what he is with respect to what exists. Let him regard himself as lost in this remote corner of nature, and from the little cell in which he finds himself lodged, I mean the universe […]. What is a man in the infinite?” Oh dear we, our grand universe is merely “the little cell.” Deck it with holly as we may, the weather outside is frightful. Ad infinitum. 

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