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Fair lady, I believe you have mistaken me for poor Yorick, that hath borne me on his back a thousand times.
Actually, my thoughts have strayed to random power orbital sanders. But more to work with knee caps than canvas.
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Hamlet - You that look pale and tremble at this chance, That are but mutes or audience to this act, Had I but time - as this fell sergeant, death, Is strict in his arrest - O, I could tell you - But let it be. Horatio, I am dead; Thou livest; report me and my cause aright To the unsatisfied.
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Mike McCarty
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