I use the words you taught me. If they don't mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent.

I, of whom I know nothing, I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly.

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.

It's so nice to know where you're going, in the early stages. It almost rids you of the wish to go there.

I say me, knowing all the while it's not me.

My keepers, why keepers, I'm in no danger of stirring an inch, ah I see, it's to make me think I'm a prisoner, frantic with corporeality, rearing to get out and away.

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