?̶̣͌̓̑͌͌͋̇̎̎͠?̸̡̦̟̯̮̮̳̤͖͗̈́͘?̵͓̱̟͍̝̻̮̘̌̂̀͝ ̵̧͇̣̜͍̞̗̟̮͉̎͐̂̍̒́̈́͗͜m̵̧̨͎̯͇̯͉̘̮͓͈͙̀̂̎́͐̔̕͝ͅo̶̥̣̦͉̻͛̊n̵̛̲̮̥̣̲͉̗̖͈̳̼̰̏͒̓̅̾̒͂̉̀̃̿̎͝t̶͓̻̳̩͕̫͎̟͙̲̘͉̞̖̄͛̕h̷̰̮̏͗̄̐̔͌̊̈́͘̕̚s̷̥͍͕̖̳͓͈̖̮̓͗́̒͆̐̎̿̽̂̋̽̔͌ ̷͈̼͖͍̺̯͍̥̬̩̙̈̍̃ͅs̷̛̙̠̯̫̻̲͎̺̝͇̒́̄̑̒͑̀͂̈͆́͋̋̃i̸͉̰̋̽n̶̥̩̤̹̙̩̮̘̼̦̈́ͅc̵͖̊̏͋͂̓̓̒͆͠ȩ̵̛̛̖́́͘.̴̛͚̬̺̼̜͉̱̫̪́̿̂̍͊͘͜ ̸̮̰̹̗̯̱̻̱͙͊͒̓̓̿͛̑̔̾͋̓͘͜͠ͅͅ:̴̛̭̖́̀̃{̸̡̡̨̤̟̱̙̪̭̖̬̭͉͒͛͛̓̒͗͆̋̕ͅ}̴̡̲̦̗̠̥͈͔͔͇̏͋͊̄̈͛̊͘̕͠ͅ|̸̨̧͔͔̬̬̱͙̭̤̪͌̅͗̔̒̆͐̍|̶̛̞̗̀̅͝{̸̡̘̲̜̟͇͉̜̈̇̓͠}̷̢̢̡̙͚͖̮̺̭̦̤̒̓̀̈́̀̍̐̑̍͂̽́̌̚͜͠{̵̢̡̹̘̖̱̼̫̪̣͖̖̐̿̾̉͐̏͑̌͂̓̔̽̐̕ͅͅ}̴̡̛͇͎͉̟̞̰͔̯̤̘͈̓͑̈́̃̅̄̊̐̓͆̕͠͝͝ͅ|̵́̅̾͌̀͋

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O, I die, Horatio.
The potent poison quite o’er-crows my spirit:
I cannot live to hear the news from England,
But I do prophesy th’election lights
On Fortinbras. He has my dying voice.
So tell him, with the occurrents more and less,
Which have solicited. The rest is silence.