To be, or not to be confused, that is the question! Why, Shakespeare- or William, you don’t mind if I call you that, do you? Why, William, did you say that? To be or not to be…what does it mean? To be would mean to be alive, right? And not to be, well…you know what that would mean. Is that even a legitimate choice? O William, William! Wherefore art thou William? Where were you the night you wrote that? I’m inclined to think your town’s local, but…why are you so famous anyways? What did you write that was so phenomenal that the whole world knows your name? Just some old deceased writer, that’s what you are. But then again, to thine own self be true. Lend me your ears, William, just for a moment; maybe then I could hear what you heard when you read this stuff. When you wrote this did you get a gut feeling telling you it was amazing or were you just…writing? Normally, like me? Is that how you seriously talked back then? And when you said, ‘I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him,’ did you maybe think that that was what people might think when they bury you? No offense, of course. Just wondering. Probably one of the only things you got right was ‘The course of true love never did run smooth.’ Yes, I think we all can relate to that. At least people don’t kill themselves very often over love nowadays. That’s another thing, why’d you always right about death, William? Did you like ending your stories sad? ‘By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.’ Lots of people should’ve known that in your plays. It could have saved lives. And lastly, why did you ever, ever think of writing, ‘The whole world’s a stage; the men and women are merely players,’? Cause, William, tell me, if life is all a play, why do things hurt so much?