You're on earth. There's no cure for that.

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

Estragon: We always find something, eh Didi, to give us the impression we exist? Vladimir: Yes, yes, we're magicians.

We should have thought of it when the world was young, in the nineties.

I want very much to be back in the caul, on my back in the dark forever.

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

All I know is what the words know, and dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning and a middle and an end, as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead.