I feel monotony and death to be almost the same.
O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!
What is this world that is hastening me toward I know not what, viewing me with contempt?
No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.
Where I am, I don’t know, I’ll never know, in the silence you don’t know, you must go on, I can’t go on, I’ll go on.
This life, which had been the tomb of his virtue and of his honour, is 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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