Creeps in this petty place 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.
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