What are we doing here, that is the question.
Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes, it’s awful.
We all are born mad. Some remain so.
There’s man all over for you, blaming on his boots the faults of his feet.
They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it’s night once more.
At this place, at this moment of time, all mankind is us, whether we like it or not.
Given the existence … of a personal God … who … loves us dearly … it is established beyond all doubt … that man … wastes and pines … for reasons unknown.
The tears of the world are a constant quality. For each one who begins to weep, somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.
Don’t touch me! Don’t question me! Don’t speak to me! Stay with me!
We’re waiting for Godot.
Estragon: Charming spot. Inspiring prospects. Let’s go.
Vladimir: We can’t.
Estragon: Why not?
Vladimir: We’re waiting for Godot.
There’s no lack of void.
Nothing to be done.
How time flies when one has fun!