Things happen so fast, you’re born, you fall in love, you’re old. And the greatest things get crammed into the tiniest bits of time. The briefest moments are the very ones you wish you could capture, dwell upon, live in … we want to but we can’t … good thing, that.

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…

Every choice is the death of all other possibilities.

If the pain is real, so is the joy,