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
What world.
My paws roam the realm of a world caving in, an ocean one moment calm abruptly thrashed by wind. Can not the threshold bare my minuscule requests? But see the gates of paper tare, a tear such a conquest.
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