To clean, or not to clean--that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous opinions
Or to take arms against a sea of advices
And by opposing end them. To clean, to shine--
Ever more--and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To clean, to shine--
To find--perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub,
But not with the grit of soil.For in that is certain
death of what dreams may come.
(with humblest apologies to the Bard)
