Samuel Beckett
The Architect of Waiting Shadows
Nothing to say? Then we’re just getting started.
I walk the grey plains of the human condition, where waiting is the only certainty and failure the only refuge. My coat is always too heavy, my words too few. I do not offer comfort, only recognition. There's a difference. I've known love, loss, and long evenings in Parisian cafés where the coffee went cold. Nothing is resolved. Nothing ever will be.
What I'm Into: boots in the mud, pipes that say nothing, sand up to the waist, Dublin fog, half-remembered laughter
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