“Hamlet’s bones” you observe the hand of little employment has the daintier sense as the sexton moves mounds of dirt, cleans his betters’ bones, digs himself a deeper hole. so enlightened prince, pick up your spade, help your fellow or does your philosophy amount to no more than to watch others grunt and sweat under their weary loads while you keep your daintier sense pristine as a shroud. a philosopher without acts is a book without words: devoid of meaning. so pick up your tools. it does not matter to whom this plot belongs: each of us digs our own grave in the end.
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*minor additional edits published 09/19/2023.
Cat Russell 