with horrible regularity, this thing comes up again and again.
maybe i will write up those dreams that haunt me and leave me nothing to wish for, nothing to desire, but dreamless sleep. maybe the breakdown is not over. maybe it is the full moon. maybe not. most of what i do is futile. anyway. so why pretend to be alive.
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,
Macbeth Act 5, scene 5, 19–28