Who are we?

We are the hollow men.
We are the sacred men.
Hallowed are our true and changing faces:
Snake-skins of a thousand consummate graces
Which grind to feign that tedious organ
Of commonplace camaraderie,
Only to parch as cheap smiles burrow
Into dreams of love and bitter matrimony
Yes, we are your chosen hollows,
And we die as we live, unmarked and fake.