True, I talk of dreams,
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy,
Which is as thin of substance as the air
And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes
Even now the frozen bosom of the north,
And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.
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Anonymous: the grrumph?
Hmm?
Anonymous: The filling is in the pork
But is the pork not in the filling?
Anonymous: I'm doing a survey of facial expressions on tumblr. Every other girl seems to be pouting. How would you describe your signature look?
I’m sure… Uh I don’t know the vacant-expression-with-slight-annoyance look?
