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
I would be the kitchen table where everything happens and memories are held.
ReplyDeleteI'd love to be a treasured antique . . . wait a minute, I AM!
ReplyDeleteThe Grand Canyon. I could enjoy the millions and millions of visitors that arrive each year.
ReplyDeleteHave a fabulous day and week. ♥