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
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Unworthy
My defect weeps as my hatred it keeps, lamenting as upon my contentment it creeps. My blister screams as it you have deemed much too degrading and to me you feigned.
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