Shakespeare's soliloquy
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players,
They have their exits and entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like a furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier.
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide,
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again towards the childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
--Requiem Majoris--
Lurking beneath the headlines and fear mongering that daily clutters the screens and front pages lay the unborn parasites of this ever-evolving crusade against the heathenish evils of our time. And as the plebeian masses devour the fired chicken and triple burger poisons thrust upon them to assuage their economic depravity, they sleepwalk through these days and nights wary only of those clamors taught them. And as the stars shine down on the silent cul-de-sacs and empty strip mall parking lots in this parochial Eden of ours, the villains made of our peerless prerogative are paid off at the dark ends of alleys for the iniquitous labours that surely must be undertaken in the name of global manumission.We are not mocked. For to suffer history's predilection for decline without so much as kicking at the ground is to never have existed at all. Our music, our literature, our religion – death rattles, whispers drowned beneath the intoxicating seduction of Earth's orgasmic exasperations. And the weary students who dream only of lives lost in extravagant inaneness, who endure these boring lessons of destruction's euphoria, parade themselves as polished prisoners through the streets, championing the lionized vocation of our time - willful ignorance.----BY MATT GOOD--
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