About

'That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant at all.'

                   -T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred. Prufrock

Reading this poem over a century later, as someone born in the post-postmodern world, I always feel a bit sick. Years of the doom scroll have, I sometimes feel, pared off little pieces of my brain like a knife to apple, rendering it capable of producing thoughts but at pains to polish them off. Whether my brain is bruised or permanently damaged remains to be seen, but I would like to think I might be able to salvage a little bit of my own sense out of the homogenous gloop I feel swishing behind my eyeballs whenever I open TikTok.

So I have created Prufrock, a space where half-thoughts might grow a little closer to becoming whole. I also like to yap about poetry.