You, with your naïve 18 year old idealism, your bloated sense of justice and self importance — to die, to sleep. So what? Because life and injustice roll on with or without you. Most foul, and pestilent, indeed when your uncle and mom play the beast with 2 backs and your dad not yet 2 months dead. Cold meats furnished out, and so forth.
But death, you think, there’s the rub, or just take that bare bodkin and end it. But, really, how could you? For then, oh then, what dreams may come may not be pretty like sweet Ophelia singing the willow song. Oh, how does it go? Weep, willow, weep for me.
And the final slaughter onstage. The whole ugly mess laid bare in the end.