Estragon: What about hanging ourselves? Vladimir: Hmm. It'd give us an erection.
Hold the old holding hand. Hold and be held. Plod on and never recede. Slowly with never a pause plod on and never recede.
We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.
If there is one question I dread, to which I have never been able to invent a satisfactory reply, it is the question what am I doing.
The essential doesn't change.
The essential is to go on squirming forever at the end of the line, as long as there are waters and banks and ravening in heaven asporting God to plague his creature, per pro his chosen shits.