Everything fell down in february, a domestic apocalypse catapulted time to a newborn galaxy of thoughts for three years of lost meanings: from love to family, from work to status, from togetherness to loneliness, nothing meant nothing.
And yet another february, the past is gone, present prevails, Mr Gold was swallowed up by that old february hurricane and there she goes, Martha, and her two kids, with inexistent expectations, at a point in life where, finally, the Unknown just feels safer than anything she ever knew before.
Might be cause is not really february, but february the 29th.
Leap years are the best.
(Again, to read book critics, you better go to Goodreads, Inks on books is a project where I just draw on the books I read, and then write whatever for the post.)