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.
It's from a book my father has, of plays by an Englishman. I wish that there were players here in Fortunas, other than the puppet shows. It might be nice to have something to do, something to see, a performance of some kind. Might pull Fortunas together now more than ever.
![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}