Estragon: Charming spot. Inspiring prospects. Let’s go.
Vladimir: We can’t.
Estragon: Why not?
Vladimir: We’re waiting for Godot.

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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.