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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. \\
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//(Shakespeare, Macbeth 5,5)// \\


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