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.
Hasn't learned how to do the arm part of crawling. He'll move his knees, then fall on his face cuz he hasn't gotten the arm part down hehe
My smiley baby
Made possible by Gretchen at 4:41 PM
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