Wrote a forlorn and desperate piece this morning. Now it is gone. What profit, that? Dawn has come. Birds are chirping, cats are heading home. Everything changes in an instant.
But the journey from there to here--now there's the fuel.
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.
William Shakespeare, Macbeth
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