Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of time and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way of dusty death. Out, out brief candle. Life's but a walking shadow. A poor player who struts and frets his hour on the stage and then is heard from no more. It is a tale told by an idiot. A tale
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Comments 1
I migth have to kill myself now as its no more than a "walking shadow"
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