Picture a man. Not a devil or a god. Not a sinner or a saint. Just a man. Picture him coming home one moonless night, carrying four bags of groceries clipped into a large carabiner with padded grip in his right hand, and a five-litre water bottle in his left. It’s another cruel winter in Alashankou, Inner Mongolia. To save on heating, the man sheds only his great coat once he’s stepped in out of the biting wind. Living alone means living in the dark—he turns one light on in any room he enters, and turns it off as he leaves. When the weak pale sun rises tomorrow, the man will not register it through thick drapes drawn for three months of the year to trap his every warm breath. Your breath. You are this man.