I still smile it's not worth the trouble any more for a long time now it's not been worth the trouble the tongue spring goes into the mud I stay like this not thirsty any more the tongue goes back into the mouth it closes it has to make a straight line now it's done I've made the image.

The blind have no notion of time. The things of time are hidden from them too.

I have nothing but wastes and wilds of self-translation before me for many miserable months to come.

James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.

Poets are the sense, philosophers­­ the intelligence­­ of humanity.

Estragon: I'm like that. Either I forget right away or I never forget.

The essential is never to arrive anywhere, never to be anywhere. The essential is to go on squirming forever at the edge of the line, as long as there are waters and banks and ravening in heaven a sporting God to plague his creature, per pro his chosen shits. I've swallowed three hooks and am still hungry. Hence the howls. What a joy to know where one is, and where one will stay, without being there. Nothing to do but strech out comfortably on the rack, in the blissful knowledge you are nobody for eternity.