To find a form that accommodates the shape of the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
I tried to groan, Help! Help! But the tone that came out was that of polite conversation.
It's a rare thing not to have been bonny-- once.
Vladimir: Did I ever leave you? Estragon: You let me go.
To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
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.