Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, until the last syllable of recorded time. And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out – out! brief candle. Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player who struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard of no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
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