Character: Rosencrantz

- My honoured Lord!
- Yes, my friend!
- How are you?
- Obsessed with.
- Really? How?
- I've changed.
- Inside or outside?
- And - I.
- It is clear. (Pause.) Not much new there.

- Shall we do some questions?
- And what does it mean?
- Practice!
- No question! Single - zero.
- Disgusting.
Why?
- I haven't started yet.
- Not a question. Two - zero.
- Does that count?
What?
Does that count?
Point. For the repetition. Three - zero. Con.

Your every act, albeit insignificant, generates another, knows where, who knows someone, and the one - third and so on, a vicious circle. So keep your eyes peeled and all ears. Be careful and follow the instructions. And everything will be fine.

- Just the two of us. Is that enough?
As an audience, disappointing. As lovers - perfect.

- What you specializiruetsya?
Tragedy, sir. Murder and disclosures, universal and particular, the denouement as sudden and relentless melodrama quick change on all levels including the suggestive. We introduce you to a world of intrigue and illusion... clowns, if you like, murderers - we can introduce you to spirits and battles, duels, heroes and villains, the suffering of lovers in the poems; rapier, vampires or both, by all means faithless wives and raping virgins for naturalism allowance - however, this is related to realism, which has its own rates. Something I overclocked, huh?

It is foolish to upset, and anyway, imagining the coffin, I think of myself as living, although you're actually dead. The fact of the difference. You're not going to know that you're in a coffin. You like to sleep in a drawer. I certainly would not want to sleep there, and even without air, and you'd Wake up dead man - then what to do? In a coffin. That's what I don't like it, that's why I don't think about it.
You're helpless. Nailed you in a box, Yes, even forever. Even if you're dead, still not nice. Especially because you're dead. Judge for yourself. Suppose I nailed you there. What would you like to be - dead or alive? Alive of course, it's not dead, though in a coffin, some chance remains. You could lie there thinking: "I'm still alive. Now anyone knocks on the lid and tells him to get out - "Hey you, whatsyername! come on!"
How it happens, that moment when one first knew about death? It happens... somewhere in my childhood, when suddenly you realize that you're not going to live forever. Such a shock must surely stick in the memory, and I don't remember it. So it was not. Probably we are born with a premonition of death, not knowing that word, not knowing that the words exist at all. We're born bloody and screaming, with the solid knowledge that all of the light leads only one direction and its length is measured by time.