January with Ian Sinclair

It is the season to be melancholy, to contemplate, in groaning surfeit, the armature of bone beneath our cope of stretched flesh. The moment between indulgence and regret, the tide of a new year. When the days are short, we are closest to the medieval world. To the avoidance of mirrors where death improves our portraits every morning with a few more lines and shadows, where we loosely straddle the ill defined borders of mortality. The General Contract: a brief turn of light, then extinction. Eternal darkness. How to live with such knowledge?