There would have been a time for such a word. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, 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 stageAnd then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing. ~ Macbeth

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