too tight too think...even i go far enough but still be the same....how can i want to let you...enough is enough...u dont need me as ur friend so please visible from my eye contact.
What is our life? A play of passion, Our mirth the music of division, Our mother's wombs the tiring-houses be, Where we are dressed for this short comedy. Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is, That sits and marks still who doth act amiss. Our graves that hide us from the setting sun Are like drawn curtains when the play is done. Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest, Only we die in earnest, that's no jest.
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