Rotten in Austin

To Wolff, or not to Wolff, that is the question:

Whether ’tis nobler on the pitch to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous horseshoes,

Or to take arms against a sea of losing

And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,

No more; and by a sleep to say we end

The heart-ache and the thousand foolish passes

That possession is heir to: ’tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish’d. To fire, to win;

To win, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub:

For in winning is where dreams may come,

When we have shuffled off this expired coach.