Preludes (II)

T.S. Eliot

The morning comes to consciousness

Of faint stale smells of beer

From the sawdust-trampled street

With all its muddy feet that press

To early coffee-stands.

With the other masquerades

That time resumes,

One thinks of all the hands

That are raising dingy shades

In a thousand furnished rooms.

* * *

Tim cracking his head over the foreword.

At last, it is finished—well, the first draft anyway. Some editing will be required, but at least it's out!

Zest is practically now our 'official' café.