The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
A wonderful excerpt from William Shakespeare's The Tempest. Act 4, Scene 1. Before Prospero's cell. I bumped into this passage entirely serendipitously, not even knowing it was Shakespeare's. Oh my.
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