“Have you not done tormenting me with your accursed time!
It's abominable!
When! When! One day, is that not enough for you?
one day he went dumb, one day I went blind, one day we'll go deaf,
one day we were born, one day we shall die,
the same day, the same second,
is that not enough for you?
They give birth astride of a grave,
the light gleams an instant,
then it's night once more.”
. . .
“Astride of a grave and a difficult birth.
Down in the hole, lingeringly, the grave digger puts on the forceps.
We have time to grow old.
The air is full of our cries.
But habit is a great deadener.
At me too someone is looking,
of me too someone is saying,
He is sleeping, he knows nothing.
Let him sleep on.”
― Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot