April 5, 2002

  • The morning comes to consciousness

    Of faint stale
    smells of beer

    From the sawdust-trampled street


    With all the muddy feet that press

    To early
    coffee-stands.

    With the other masquerades

    That time
    resumes,

    One thinks of all the hands

    That are
    raising dingy shades

    In a thousand furnished rooms.




    --T.S. Eliot

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