::

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

diary of a slave

I shall contort all my limbs if it will assail my master with any ease.
I shall slaughter all my whims if it will guard my master of my disease.

Strip me of my pride and maim me in your consummate honor;
For my veins I would let dry had my blood to such glory gone for.
Posted by at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)