(September 15, 2015 at 5:58 pm)Stimbo Wrote: Yeah. I came within a gnat's whisker of having something I'd written read by the great man himself. That would have been better than winning. Ah well.
Also: at one time, pre-alarm clocks, there used to be professional knocker-uppers. Their job was to go round to people's houses to knock them up.
.... That must've meant alot of abortions.
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.
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.