Is there an odor that could contain the scent of rot in this once great estate. Those dead walk to an fro as industries of war work deep into the night. It has once come and then again in phantasm fashion. What of the daughter, her lover, the wife, the uncle, actors, rival, traitorous friends, duels poison death love loss suicide the like of which has been seen before, but once again rises from the ground exhumed bones of the dead. Where are Rose Crantz and Gilda Stern? They are dead and fair Hamlet cloaked in inky black iced stares at the defiled mother and lecherous husband of days after the day of the father’s death stands to accuse and kill by undead pledge. The poison is the play and is apt to act in err as the mother of her lover stabbed without knowledge is dragged through the house of halls.
Thoughts are bloody and nothing worth time, hesitation, betrothed betrayal in watery death he lies unknown to his expatriotess, dropped from the shoulders of men to a changeless sleep of no escape. A man known well of infinite jest can laugh no more as he who in rapt madness removed his life in a river grave now known and passingly mourned by the young princess Denmark as a sporting duel looms with the sister of the dead and all but one slain will tell the tragic tale.