Dying For Dark — And The Darker

We Lose Our Hair, Our Teeth! Our Bloom, Our Ideals.

My Life, My Life, Now I Speak Of It As Of Something Over, Now As Of A Joke Which Still Goes On, And It Is Neither, For At The Same Time It Is Over And It Goes On, And Is There Any Tense For That? Watch Wound And Buried By The Watchmaker, Before He Died, Whose Ruined Works Will One Day Speak Of God, To The Worms.

Watt Had Watched People Smile And Thought He Understood How It Was Done.

In My Head There Are Several Windows, That I Do Know, But Perhaps It Is Always The Same One, Open Variously On The Parading Universe.

Estragon: Nothing To Be Done.