Do not tell me, Oh, to not ask "What is it?" because, dang it, Prufrock, what if some of us just really want to know?
You cannot insist and persist on this "time" that may or may not be, for after all, the yellow smoke can only slide along the streets for so long. [Pollution, man.] The room is simply occupied by ordinary women coming and going talking in generics about works of art as they're so expected to do, and I'll tell you that the company is not worth the toast and tea.
And sure, the approaching evening and the prospect of disturbing the universe and regarding the question of whether it would have been worth while can be paralyzing like some patient etherised upon a table, but as it turns out your hair is balding and you're using obscure metaphors consisting of crustaceans to describe your current plight which can only mean that you, sir, need to make some sort of internal renovation.
Possess the strength, man! to squeeze this universe of you and some other into a ball, with a smile, and not simply approach but stand upon the overwhelming question and force the moment to its crisis. A mermaid might sing to you.
You and I both, Prufrock, have measured our lives with coffee spoons.