To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
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 heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Dozens of longhorn flower beetles swarm the magnolia blossom, males banging into one another, males and females copulating, some flopping into the ground cover, both sexes flying awkwardly, ridiculously long antennae like floppy frontal pigtails.
This one, for a moment, might well be mistaken for some clown preparing for his entrance through a velvet curtain. May he do well.
