“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.”

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