a place for scraps
mostly poems, passing thoughts, ideas, lamentations
some may disappear
To be, or not to be — that is the question
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn no traveller returns
The rest is silence
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil
To die, to sleep — to sleep, perchance to dream
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
O, that this too too solid flesh would melt
Thaw and resolve itself into a dew
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all
Good night, sweet prince