Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
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.
[Anonymous]
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
[And in different (and still disguised) writing below that:]
When the hurlyburly's done,
When the battle's lost and won.
[And in a third hand.]
That will be ere the set of sun.
[disguised]
[Anonymous, now rather feminine]
perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little
hand. Oh, oh, oh!
[disguised, la la~]
[Disguised]
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
[disguised]
[Disguised]
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.
[Disguised]
no subject
[Disguised]
no subject
[disguised childish block handwriting]
THIS IS NOT ME.
[disguised childish block handwriting]
WHERE WILL I FIND YOU?
[disguised childish block handwriting]
[disguised childish block handwriting]