The icy prostate lies prostrate on the earth, praying to no gods in particular. Even if its mighty head glares up upon the stars, it knows no salvation. The scrotal lump at its base, decorated with tiny sticks for hairs, but with no warm hands to stroke them. Veins poke out of the snowy skin like ripples in a tiny ocean, but they’re never going to throb with lust. They stand as totems to the human condition so omnipresent, “Build a snow penis or count how many you see” is number 35 on “161 Things Every Cornellian Should Do.” Each snowstorm, I wander the tundric landscape to behold a mass erection of phalluses.