oh egypt.

the undisciplined squads of emotions. at the still point of the turning world, human kind can not bear very much reality. the intolerable wrestle with words and meaning the houses are all gone under the sea, the wounded surgeon plies the steel, footfalls echo in the memory, teach us to care and not to care because I do not hope to turn again because I don not hope, because I do not hope to turn, this is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but with a whimper

hell is oneself hell is alone
there is nothing to escape from and nothing to escape to one is alwyas alone
between the idea and the reality
between the motion and the act


(todays lecture are based on writing by T.S. Elliot, torn witout respect from context to fit a contemporary situation, an almost therapeutic action, but in particular elaborating my status as a second rate poet)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/T._S._Eliot