Already all confusion. Things and imaginings. As of always. Confusion amounting to nothing. Despite precautions. If only she could be pure figment. Unalloyed. This old so dying woman. So dead. In the madhouse of the skull and nowhere else. Where no more precautions to be taken. No precautions possible. Cooped up there with the rest. Hovel and stones. The lot. And the eye. How simple all then. If only all could be pure figment. Neither be nor been nor by any shift to be. Gently gently. On. Careful.

Estragon: What about hanging ourselves? Vladimir: Hmm. It'd give us an erection.

The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep, somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.

Light black. From pole to pole.

Yes, there were times when I forgot not only who I was but that I was, forgot to be.

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

I try. I fail. I try again. I fail better.