Somewhere, living in a small rural village, in a country where the temperature rarely rose above 10 degrees Celsius, lived a man. This man was just an average man, content in many of the ways of his life, and just fine with life being a repeat of itself from one day to the next. The man would wake up in his small single floor home, rise from his small foam padded bed every morning, and get up with an automatic wooden roboticism that had come to define him. Rise from his bed and stomp to the bathroom to brush his teeth, relive a dream or two in a modicum of ho-hum, step towards the refrigerator, look inside and then close it again, nothing begging him to partake. This was a regular morning, for this man, drinking his morning coffee, having stomped from the bathroom and previously his small bed, living in his small home, situated in a small rural village where it rarely rose above ten degrees celsius, was rather special in much the same way that regular persons are not. There is a reason for this.