We always find something, eh Didi, to let us think we exist?

But at this place, at this moment of time, all mankind is us, whether we like it or not. Let us make the most of it, before it is too late!

The time is perhaps not altogether too green for the vile suggestion that art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear, and more than the light of day (or night) makes the subsolar, -lunar, and -stellar excrement. Art is the sun, moon, and stars of the mind, the whole mind.

POZZO: I am blind. (Silence.) ESTRAGON: Perhaps he can see into the future.

Any fool can turn a blind eye but who knows what the ostrich sees in the sand.

The tears stream down my cheeks from my unblinking eyes. What makes me weep so? There is nothing saddening here. Perhaps it is liquefied brain.

I could not have gone through the awful wretched mess of life without having left a stain upon the silence.