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let us go then, you and i,
when the evening is spread out against the sky
like a patient etherized upon a table;
let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
the muttering retreats
of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
and sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
streets that follow like a tedious argument
of insidious intent
to lead you to an overwhelming question....
oh, do not ask, "what is it?"
let us go and make our visit.

in the room the women come and go
talking of michelangelo.

for i have known them all already, known them all:
have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
i have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
i know the voices dying with a dying fall
beneath the music from a farther room.
so how should I presume?

no! i am not prince hamlet, nor was meant to be;
am an attendant lord, one that will do
to swell a progress, start a scene or two,
advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
deferential, glad to be of use,
politic, cautious, and meticulous;
full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
at times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
almost, at times, the fool.

we have lingered in the chambers of the sea
by sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
till human voices wake us
and we drown.

-t.s. eliot

*
this is officially riotproof.
no one asked your opinion, you filthy little mudblood.

all i want in life is
a little bit of love
to take the pain away
getting strong today
a giant step each day

--

and i think there are pieces of me you've never seen
maybe she's just pieces of me you've never seen well...

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