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
Thursday, November 3, 2011
alone in a full world
The world is brimming bright Spilling over with souls Yet here am I alone Environed by a million Yet each eye I encounter Swiftly swivels away. I must have receded into the air Like a mist never sensed Have I transformed Into formlessness?
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