The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock - T. S. Eliot
Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is set out against the sky like a patient etherized upon a table. Let us go through half-deserted streets, the muttering retreats of restless nights in one-night, cheap hotels, of sawdust restaurants with oyster shells; streets that follow like a tedious argument of insidious intent to lead us 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.
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