If we decide and act in such a way that our lives are no more than a syllable – then why are we?
– Henrik

She should have died hereafter
There would have been a time for such a word.
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.

Shakespeare’s tragedy
Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 5, lines 17-28)