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Dear Mr. T.S. Eliot, (Yes, I talk to dead people. But don’t we all?) I love The Waste Land. The whole burial of the dead, fire sermon – chess game, death by water, the agony in stony places, the assertion that April is the cruelest month. (It’s true. I just finished taxes and April still retains it position as the cruelest month.) But sir, the past year has put April to shame. March was a mother. February kicked my ass. And January? She was a mean old bitch. ¬†December and…