Hold the old holding hand. Hold and be held. Plod on and never recede. Slowly with never a pause plod on and never recede.
Imagination at wit's end spreads its sad wings.
I tried to groan, Help! Help! But the tone that came out was that of polite conversation.
Vladimir: Did I ever leave you? Estragon: You let me go.
The day you die is just like any other, only shorter.
My keepers, why keepers, I'm in no danger of stirring an inch, ah I see, it's to make me think I'm a prisoner, frantic with corporeality, rearing to get out and away.