A bag of garbage by the door.
My thoughts on T.S. Eliot. Photo by Sven Brandsma.

English Anguish

Random thoughts while procrastinating on an English paper

Here we are again. Time to write another stimulating article on the absolutely archaic works of some deceased poet, who at no time during his animate lifetime would oblige even a minuscule explanation regarding any of his insidious works.

Pray tell dear fellow, I should hope I am never like that. Though it may befall my present state to be such, as I am somewhat of a procrastinator and therefore seek to sound intelligent. But I digress, for “It is the bloody business which pertains thus to mine eyes.”

T.S. Eliot, an author quite unlike any other. His works are hard to decipher for any normal human being, being human or normal to begin with, which might seem scandalous in light of such “normalcy” as is present and recent at all (as it recently might seem otherwise).

All right, T.S. Eliot. His works reflect a pessimistic, struggling, guileless array of perturbed anomalies seeking reconciliation without the distress and agony commonly associated with matters pertaining to social norms and/or customs, inasmuch as such happenings occur only directly to our perversely masochistic rambling persona.

A mouthful sure, but better than the bitter cane of brown sugar distantly distilled in the bile of one’s intestines… yes? No.

For you see, or rather don’t, as it seemingly hitherto would incur, that all the world’s a strange range of a stagnant stage of algae.