To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
-The Worthily Beloved William Shakespeare
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Image part II
Irritatingly bitter the dread with a perplexity unexpected that sprouted from the tred of this image in my head.
Infuriating the irking growth of desire for to my image cajole, and agony lies within in the folds of this image I behold.
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