Something about March really maddens. First the buzzer sounds not once but invariably and inevitably way too often. Followed by a dark horse whinnying. A persistent noise that signals an interstice disrupting the natural syntax of to and fro. Even time falls apart, remeasured by the hour into fifteen minute halves. Suddenly the nation transfixes on those long young limbs doing a very big dance. But who is to say who remains an ugly duckling and who becomes the beautiful swan. Yet, in spite of Eliot, fanatics do come and go speaking not of Michaelango but his elbow.
And in a blink of the eye that very cruel month arrives.