Time doesn’t go. Time stays. We go.
The long time to come when I shall not exist has more effect on me than this short present time, which nevertheless seems endless.
It bothers me that I won’t live to see the end of the century, because, when I was young, in St. Louis, I remember saying to Marilyn, my sister by adoption, that that was how long I wanted to live: seventy years.
No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.
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.
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