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More from Waiting for Godot

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.