In the past week since I finished the book, I find myself every so often experience a small wave of genuine relief that I am no longer reading it. There is little to no plot development, although the story begins with a good start and beckons the reader to keep reading it in the hope that it will develop. It doesn't. The characters remain the same monotonous bores throughout, basking in ad nauseum "poetic" descriptions of the gray details of their lives. I could accept a book that is built on poetry rather than plot if the poetry itself was insightful or beautiful or even a cohesive collection. There were a couple of lines that resonated with me and that I will continue to think about. But they were buried within pages and pages of incoherent drivel. A entire book of this stuff was just not warranted.