| A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, |
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| And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, |
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| And the dry stone no sound of water. Only |
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| There is shadow under this red rock, |
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| (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), |
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| And I will show you something different from either |
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| Your shadow at morning striding behind you |
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| Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; |
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| I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
– from T.S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land”
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Nurse Your Favorite Heresies in Whispers
Eric Robert Nolan, Author 