How long have I been here, what a question, I've often wondered. And often I could answer, An hour, a month, a year, a century, depending on what I meant by here, and me, and being, and there I never went looking for extravagant meanings, there I never much varied, only the here would sometimes seem to vary.

The human eyelid is not teartight (happily for the human eye).

it's impossible I should have a mind and I have one

It is suicide to be abroad. But what it is to be at home, ... what it is to be at home? A lingering dissolution.

Habit is a great deadener.

But it seems impossible to speak and yet say nothing, you think you have succeeded, but you always overlook something.

What are we doing here, that is the question. And we are blessed in this, that we happen to know the answer. Yes, in the immense confusion one thing alone is clear. We are waiting for Godot to come