however more abbreviated than its cousins it may look, february feels longer than any of them (the months). it is the meanest moon of winter, all the more cruel because it will masquerade as spring, occasionally for hours at a time, only to rip off its mask with a sadistic laugh and spit icicles into every gullible face, behavior that grows quickly old.
february is pitiless, and it is boring. that parade of red numerals on its page adds up to zero: birthdays of politicians, a holiday reserved for rodents, what kind of celebrations are those?…
james joyce was born in february, as was charles dickens and victor hugo, which goes to show that writers are poor at beginnings, although worse at knowing when to stop.
If february is the color of lard on rye, its aroma is that of wet wool trousers. as for sound, it is an abstract melody played on a squeaky violin, the petty whine of a shrew with cabin fever. o february, you may be little but you’re small! were you twice your tiresome length, few of us would survive to greet the merry month of May.
