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 stage And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. -- Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 5
Frankie and Slim
Thursday, August 11, 2005
bless it's little heart
Ron is feeling somewhat better, David got over it fairly quickly, I haven't contracted it (knock on wood) but Elenore still has the plague. She HAD to go to work today. After talking to her last night, I don't see how in the world she has managed to leave her house. All I can do is softly say, "bless it's little heart".
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