Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty face 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.
- Macbeth
pardon my heart
-
I think blogging for a period of time (especially a formative one) makes a
person sort of eternally obsessed with recording and organizing everything,
so ...
11 years ago