Published
0 114 0
My yesterday was dream. My morrow, dirt! A while past, nothing; a while later, smoke. All pitiful ambition I exert to strike at what destroys me with one stroke. I, skirmish of the war I cannot win, am the true weakness of my strategy. As I let my own cannons do me in, the body does not bear but buries me. Yesterday's out, tomorrow yet unplayed. Today runs by and is and was and flings me headfirst into d**h without delay. The moment and the hour are each a spade salaried by my fears and sufferings to dig my monument in living clay.