Finality

  • Yorick

    Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy; he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now?

    Grave dirt, bone, decay, angel’s trumpet, and moldering scraps of shroud: the essence of finality.

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