What is February 29? Is it
like the other 365 paragraphs of the yearbook? Or a surprise footnote, facts to
be included that don’t quite fit the text’s mundane logic? Lost in footnotes we
follow the walking track, gaze about, wondering who was born here, and who
died. For its duration, February 29 is the only place to be. Footnotes are (in
fact) logical, remind us that all our reading is footnotes, our own thoughts
kickstarted by words. Our mind is a thousand hands and feet pointing in other
directions, our seasonal variations. But then the text resumes its March.
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