I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.
The only thing you must never speak of is your happiness.
You are not satisfied unless form is so strictly divorced from content that you can comprehend the one without almost without bothering to read the other.
My mistakes are my life.
Estragon: What about hanging ourselves? Vladimir: Hmm. It'd give us an erection.
Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.