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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

Friday, February 18, 2011

Paucity

Grievously impotent now is the soul,
as despairingly ambitious its task
implored upon him to reap such a toll,
that altogether would him outlast.

His endeavers waned so decrepitly,
that never did consummation approach;
fell upon him callous defiancy,
to further upon paucity encroach.

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