Irish Wake, further sketch

Lincoln (as if in front of a classroom):   Kids, don't ever get the hypo.  Don't ever try to go out into the world feeling down.  Folks will mess with you, from all angles.  You'll have only one defense against them:  words.  You'll end up involved with meaningless struggles.  Terrible things.  Slaughter.

Folks have big egos, because they have economies, and thus there's no way around that.  They have to fight for 'their way of life.'  And being depressed, you for your part think that life must have meaning, that therefore some justice must apply.  What we call God's justice.  Fairness.  Equality.

But while all such things are fine and dandy, you have to stick up for yourself, before all the high ideals, and maybe the best of us, believing in such things as higher meaning, get tricked and cheated, left out in the cold.  Alone on a horse, out in the rain, with a goddamn war on your shoulders.  They're doing you a favor when the shoot you finally.  (Turns to Kennedy, who nods.)

There are the ideals, and, kids, it's far better to stay in Heaven.

For in the world, there are offenses, which must come.  Even for no damn good reason.  Took me a long time to learn that.  The world ain't perfect kids.  Things just don't work out, like they should.  Nope, they don't.  There's an idiot trying to bungle with every single thing, or some sharp nasty person ready to spit at you or worse.  And what the hell did I do, you say to yourself.

Well, there's the law.  Naked, barely protected.  It doesn't apply to all the things you think it should, all the thousand unfairnesses of life.

I dream sometimes.  Of being next to someone, and how that just simply feels good, as if you could go before things got all fucked up.

People are vulnerable, remember.  They ache a lot.  I've known that a good while.  Some would say it's writ on my old face.  And I don't take it lightly.

Children, the world is an unforgiving place.  And don't ever be friends with a writer, for surely he's a miserable type.