I am an ice man. At night I must sleep completely submerged in a cold bath, which is frozen overnight. In the morning someone frees me from a solid block of ice with a hammer and chisel, rather chunky at first, I've melted to my ideal shape by around two o'clock in the afternoon. Then I start to fade and by bathtime I'm pretty thin. Can you imagine the claustrophobia of waking up part of a block of ice, there being no delineation whatsoever between the part that is you and the part that is not you? They do my head first, first my ears, then my mouth, then my eyes. They talk to me reassuringly and I don't scream any more the first chance I get. I never get invited to parties twice: "So, you're made of ice..." I don't really enjoy the parties so much anymore, even if no-one sticks my fingers in their drink.
When I was made the Daily Mail said I was science gone mad, but I'd rather be this than nothing, daily traumatic birth and all, although the precariousness of my existence give me more of an appreciation for what we have than people made of meat or plastic. The tin men understand a bit better, they have to keep well oiled. On the other hand it can be tempting, sometimes, to spare myself the hassle, find a quite spot and just let myself run down the drain, no more morning terrors and empty evenings. But I'm pretty sure there's no afterlife for ice men, when I'm stuck in the block I do not feel the presence of other ice minds. So I'll stick around, maybe one day I'll find a more meaningful existence, write a best seller, Ice Man's Search For Meaning, go on all the chat shows (no hot lights please), and they will say, "So, you're made of ice..."