Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
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. Macbeth, by William Shakespeare, Act 5, Scene 5. Hi there. It's your normal, average paranoid and delusional man here. I've been gone for a while, but not to worry, it wasn't anything serious, just a case of, perhaps, I couldn't be bothered. For a while now I've been living a bit that way - not being bothered, that is. Having been discharged from mental health services, and with the voluntary work I once did largely disappearing, and with my mum's death around two years ago, you could say that I've become somewhat isolated, which has probably led to this n