Um, okay. I guess this is about right. T.S. Eliot was one of my favorite poets in college. And that was when I had hope for my life.
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T.S.Eliot: The Wasteland. You are a desperate cry to God, moulded in intricate word-craftmanship. Your language is controlled, but inside, you feel empty and are not content with your life. You see both the world and your inner self as a waste land: nothing good can come out of it anyway. People find you difficult to understand but admire you nevertheless.
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