To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?
VLADIMIR: What do they say? ESTRAGON: They talk about their lives. VLADIMIR: To have lived is not enough for them. ESTRAGON: They have to talk about it.
I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.
That penny farthing hell you call your mind
We always find something, eh Didi, to let us think we exist?
Do we mean love, when we say love?