interstellarsam:

modern-day hamlet sitting in a massive room at claudius’ mansion alone in the dark with the curtains drawn so that the sun just barely shines through on the floor listening to pink floyd on vinyl with a skull-shaped lamp on the table next to him. dostoevsky (or poe, or maybe both) open on his lap. dressed all in black (hot topic bags still shoved under the cushions or scattered on the floor) with a single cigarette dangling from his fingers. staring at the ceiling or the wall and whining in low tones about how shitty his life is. horatio (in a rather put upon voice) asks “what’s wrong, hamlet” as he knows he’s supposed to and hamlet sighs a deep tragic noise, kicks his legs out onto the table, drapes his arm over his face, and whispers “oh, nothing”