I can still recall the feelings when I first picked up the poetry collections of T.S. Elliot. . The sense of hopelessness lies within the words and rhymes, while the bizarre delusion invades every cells in your brain. . It's difficult to put it back down, . drown to the deepest level of the inferno, . chat with the hollow man and tease them for being such a coward that refuse to believe that religion is just another dirty lie, desperate to be unraveled. . drink with the moon so her face can be red again just like the Shiraz that is now running through my veins, just like the sunsetting sky above us, just like the blood shattered below us. . . Don't you understand? we are born to corrode ourselves. . . 3:00 .