which tomorrow are we talking about ??
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
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.