Um, yeah.

I'm sure it means something that the response I got to this evening's formal ritual was "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock", but I have no earthly idea what it might be. . . .

Specifically:

There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

(. . . actually, that may be a response to my feelings of worthlessness and inadequacy and not-getting-done-what-needs-doing . . . Amazing how writing down the question produces the answer, isn't it?)

I grow old, I grow old, I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled . . .