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.
- William Shakespeare, MacBeth
- William Shakespeare, MacBeth
we are meaning making machines.
don't hold on to things that no longer matter.
because they are an illusion; an interpretation.
tomorrow is a blank page on a book.
so now im going to hike that mountain.
