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.
He can actually climb out of his Bumbo
Sitting in a highchair for the first time
Reaching for a glass
"I think I've seen them do something like this" hehe
Made possible by Gretchen at 10:15 PM
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