Alas, poor Yorick’s skull, I knew you well. You served me long and faithfully, sitting patiently on my desk while dribbly candles burned down to stumps atop you. You never complained about the wax that ran through your eye sockets or mounded up where once your nose would have been. You intimidated the bold and terrified the timorous, yet my niece quite happily stroked you when she came to visit and called you “Yorick’s skull” as though you were an old friend.
I told people of your connections to the other realm and of the power that resided still in your yellow sutures and you never once called me a liar, though people flinched away from you and turned their heads to one side. So many people spat and crossed themselves that I had to put a spittoon down by the side of you, and still you ignored this ignominy and served me well. People looked into your waxy sockets and saw potential infinity. I know that made you proud.
I’ve ordered a new one of you from the suppliers. It’ll be here on Monday.

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