#extracts (I will never be consistent, so I won't put a number in front)

"Anyway, soon I will finally be completely dead. Maybe next month. Then it would be either April or May. Because the year is still early, a thousand little signs tell me so. I might be wrong, and I might make it past Saint John and even Bastille Day, the festival of freedom. But what am I saying, I could last until the Transfiguration, I know myself well, or until the Assumption. But I don't believe, I don't think I'm mistaken when I say that these celebrations will take place without me, this year. I have this feeling, I've had it for a few days now, and I trust it. But how is it different from those that have deceived me since I've been in this world?"

Samuel Beckett, Malone Dies