Yeah, it's late. Never too late for Prufrock, though—and this is mesmerizing. Maybe it's the Nyquil—hell, maybe I'm not even here—but right now, this rendering seems more fascinating than horrific. Be wary of some of the others, though—Maude Gonne has Jim Morrison hair, Blake looks suspiciously like Al Lewis, and Emily—my poor, poor Emily—looks like Mary Todd Lincoln and sounds like Linda Lavin, so I probably won't be able to sleep for a few days at least. The Prufrock, though, is aces. Just try not to be hypnotized by the bookcase and the wallpaper and the curtain behind old Tom shifting and contorting with each movement of his head (such was his personal magnetism--he could unlock doors merely by looking at them disapprovingly, I've heard).
(If Disneyworld had an animatronic Eliot exhibit—kind of in the spirit of Huck Finn, another barefoot boy from Missouri--reckon it would look something like this?)
Without further ado, one of Language's best moments, and a very good argument against wearing trousers to the beach—Prufrock: