How far has a chap fallen that his lower jaw is quite chap-fallen? Question follows question in search of a punch-line. Was it de rigueur to talk to a skull? On such familiar terms? On stage? After dark? In a graveyard? Is it now? Theatre uses aliases, alas. Jaw falls open and it’s all laughs, disarming grins, a fixed smile. Our Yorick moments increase with time, Buster Keaton’s gibes and gambols, the mad rogue Goons wont to set the table on a roar, fellows of infinite jest we replay inside, on January afternoons, too hot for gardening, or reading, even.