What if you slept? And what if, in your sleep, you dreamed? And what if, in your dream, you went to heaven and there plucked an strange and beautiful flower? And what if, when you awoke, you had the flower in your hand? Ah, what then?
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow Creeps in this petty pace from day to day Til the last syllable of recorded time. And all our yesterdays light fools the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle, life is but a walking shadow, A poor player who struts and frets his hour upon the stage Then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, Full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.