Hamlet

God wanted to punish me with this murder, and this man with me, so I’m both Heaven’s executioner and its minister of justice. This is bad, but it’ll get worse soon. Oh, and one other thing, madam.

What should I do?

Whatever you do, don’t do this: let the fat king seduce you into his bed again, so he can pinch your cheek, call you his bunny, and with filthy kisses and a massage of your neck with his damned fingers, make you admit that my madness is fake, all calculated. What a great idea that would be, because why would a fair, sober, wise queen hide such things from a toad, a pig, a monster like him? Who would do that? No, no, it’s much, much better to spill the beans right away, let the cat out of the bag, and break your neck in the process.

You can rest easy, since words are made of breath, and breathing requires that you be alive. I feel too dead to breathe a word of what you’ve told me.