To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last sylable of recorded time, And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Lifes but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and freuts his hour upon the stage, And then is herd no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Does my life make a difference?
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