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.
- t.s. eliot, the love song of j. alfred prufrock
