a history of me

I had another nightmare last night. I'm starting to wonder if my less-than-sunny disposition might be connected to the fact that every dream I remember is a nightmare. This particular dream was freaky because on the surface it seemed like a wonderful fantasy. I had incredible strength and I was able to best any challenger who dared cross me. Unfortunately I was killing people, some of whom were close to me, but I don't remember who or why. I was doing this over and over, like Groundhog Day only it wasn't funny at all. I woke up feeling horrible and that lasted well past lunchtime.

Thankfully I didn't sit at home today. My sister and I met my mom and we went to the Central Park Zoo which I haven't visited in about a decade. It's very nice, the admission is cheap and it's very close. One odd new innovation is that most exhibits now feature poetry, none of which seemed to apply to the corresponding animals. I suppose it's unobtrusive but it's even stranger than the poetry you see in the subway. Speaking of subway poetry, during tonight's ride back from Brooklyn I encountered an excerpt from Macbeth, specifically Act V Scene v:

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.

I'm not much of a scholar but that seems like a rather despondent sentiment to put on the R train.