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, July 27, 2010
Cigarette
A cigarette is all that rests upon the lips above the breasts of the swooning dove on her tainted chest for her heart has bled a soup thick to clog her throat and all sweet now with which she has to bloat is lone the sacchariferous smoke
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