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.

sexy sunday

ITS ALMOST TALK TUAH TUESDAY!

🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧

I use you for your body.

i like my crashouts drippy bruh