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.
​- JIM DAVIS