You know those things...

You tossed a blanket from the bed. You lay upon your back, and waited. You dozed, and watched the night revealing the thousand sordid images of which your soul was constituted. They flickered against the ceiling. And when all the world came back, and the light crept up between the shutters, and you heard the sparrows in the gutters, you had such a vision of the street as the street hardly understands; sitting along the bed's edge, where you curled the papers from your hair or clasped the yellow soles of feet in the palms of both soiled hands.

T.S. Eliot (Reconstituted)