Something that strikes me every time I read The Waste Land is the repeated interjections of mechanical sounds or imagery. The inturrputions of "HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME" at the tail end of part II recall announcements blaring over a train station PA System, as if the mechanical aspects of the world refuse to be ignored and demand attention. Part III frequently evokes mechanical sounds, with the inclusion of "twit twit twit/jug jug jug jug jug jug," almost serving as a juxtaposition between bird chips and the chuging of a motor, with the motorized sound persisting longer and sounding harsher to the ear. However the most interesting invokation of machinery, in my opinion, comes after the harshly hollow sexual encounter between the man and the woman. The woman "paces about her room again, alone,/ she smooths her hair with automatic hand,/ and puts a record on the gramophone." I find it immesely interesting that, after finding little to no solace in one of the most intimately human acts in existence, the woman returns to the automatic action of pacing, and chooses to find solace in a mass produced, mechanical reproduction of music. Much like how Vera Brittain said she could only survive the war by becoming as an automaton, this woman exists in a series of "automatic" motions, more willing to spend time thusly than with real humans. In conjunction with the term "Unreal City," it seems like the war has reduced everyone residing within to automatons, drowning out nature and inturrupting anything remotely natural.