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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, July 21, 2010

Cleanse

Eyes are cursed to be blessed;
the fallious must come before fact.
For what joy can over any eye be dressed
if that eye beholds no trevail of the past.
And what can be seen of the truth,
if indistinguishable is a lie,
not a thing can be seen by the sleuth
if upon no untruth has he spied.

Ears bleed before sealed with melody;
the music sparks only after the silence.
For what instrument can play any degree
of sound if quiet has not first triumphed.

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