| April 2002 | ||||||
| Why Not? | Sun | Mon | Tue | Wed | Thu | Fri | Sat | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 |
| 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 |
| 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 |
| 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 |
| 28 | 29 | 30 | ||||
Shakespeare
Macbeth:
There is something strange about today. Not that there isn't something strange going on every day. The air is different more so than is has been in the past. The way that all things seem to be talking just a little longer than usual. It is the way of the world but it is not the way that ll things should be.
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.
