Dear Billy,

As you know,I'll never be as intelligent as you.Sorry,but I can't help having this feeling of emptiness inside of me.I would like to tell you how important you were to me.You taught me many things...I always admired the way you were and so many things.Many things,believe.

Since my adolescence you have been my friend,my teacher,my secret adviser,my support ...and my best fan too! You loved my words more than me,sure.Thank you very much for encouraging me to write,thank you for understanding that writing wasn't a purpose,it was a passion.By the way,don't be afraid,painting has a place and writing has another one different...You wished your favorite words were in my memory when I was a lazy and fool young woman.Now,those words are in my heart ,its meaning is main icon in my life.I give you those words with all my love.You sweet voice will sound inside of me like a warm whisper that will look for when I feel lost,tired or sad.They are a reference for me,as you are.

Finally say that I hope you to understand the beauty of surrealism as I tried to explain to you with all my passion and with my smiles.

Your pet loves you and never forgets the essence of grammar.I'll miss you so much.

xox

 

Act3/Sc I

To be,or not  to be,that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind,to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And by opposing end them? To die,to sleep,

No more; and,by a sleep,to say we end

The heart-ache,and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to,tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished.To die -to sleep-

To sleep! perchance to dream; -ay,there's the rub;

For in that sleep pf death what dreams may come,

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause: there's the respect,

That makes calamity of so long life;

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

The oppressor's wrong,the proud man's contumely,

The pangs of disprized love,the law's delay,

The insolence of office,and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? who would these fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life;

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscovered country,from whose bourn

No traveller returns,puzzles the will;

And makes us rather bear those' ills we have,

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus concience does make cowards of us all;

And thus the native hue of resolutionn

Is sicklied over withh the pale cast of thought,

and enterprises of great pith and moment,

With this regard,their currents turn away,

And lose the name of action.