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
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Lies
Does the passage of my righteous feign for sake of wrong? Does my tunnel weep, blasphemous in its seemingly syrupy song? Is my voice merely caniving, a plague my eyes from blinded? I shall halt my every striving, for evil's in all I've kindled.
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