I think we are a little breathless following last week’s card! Unfortunately, our narrator Tiresias hasn’t changed his tone when describing the aftermath of the goings on between our tired typist and cocky lover.

It seems that she is so immersed in the waste land that she hardly has the time or the faculty to form an actual train of thought.

She glad it’s over; there is very little passion there. Eliot’s bleak view of the human condition: ignorant people, half alive, unable to even see for themselves the sorry state they are in. They need a blind prophet to do that.

Here she then, our typist, surrounded by the half-formed thoughts that hardly take root in her mind. 

Notice the barely veiled reference to Pearl Jam’s Evenflow? As always, thank you for taking this journey with me.