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

This winter, escape to the otherworldly Torres del Paine National Park in Chile. Photo courtesy of thesmartflyer on Instagram.

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.