She stepped out onto nothing. She saw the tent over the grave sight moving closer but she could not feel herself walking. It was as if she were dreaming. Nothing seemed real anymore. It was like the famous Macbeth said, 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.
Life is but a walking shadow.
She loved Shakespeare. She could read him anytime. But she could find no comfort in him now. Nothing mattered any more. She herself, was a walking shadow, ignoring every thing around her.