Then I went back into the house and wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.

To what will love not stoop!

Nothing matters but the writing. There has been nothing else worthwhile... a stain upon the silence.

But I was not made for the great light that devours, a dim lamp was all I had been given, and patience without end, to shine it on the empty shadows.

Fail, fail again, fail better.

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

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