Those of us who experienced the earthquake of the March the 4th, 1977 still have a vivid memory of what it was and what it meant. None of us can remain passive to the slightest trembling whether it is the underground rushing towards its next station, or it is workers drilling to introduce pipes in the street down our block of flats. It doesn’t matter. Nor does the time gone by for that matter. It remains as one of the most intact memories in my generation’s and Domnica’s lives. In this story she half-fictionalizes it, reconstructing it for younger generations who, fortunately, haven’t gone through such trauma, in her personal narrative style brilliantly impersonated by Nikaury Rodríguez. No matter how much knowledge humankind has accumulated on tectonic plates, to this day, we remain helpless before nature’s primordial movements. We are able to predict almost everything. Earthquakes belong to that portion called “almost”. The splash of the tail of a huge and angry whale. Scream included. Because on that night, the scream of the earth was as indescribable as unforgettable. The sinister whitish light in spite of the darkness, the mixture of death and life, the crowds walking aimless through the streets of a Bucharest full of rubble and flooded by water bursting from broken pipes like in some colossal national funeral procession and the perplex sensation of not knowing whether to rejoice for the survival or mourn for the thousands buried, make this story An amazing piece of memorialistic literature worth being shared with as many people as possible. Domnica Radulescu’s brain is being excavated into by her probe-arm to whisk images like photos in a family album. She feels she is the sum of her memories while she rationalizes this assumption to be wrong. “This is you right here, right now!”, her brain says. But she keeps on going back from time to time.