Waiting for Godot
A running sore!
It's the rope.
It's the rubbing.
(Lyrically) The tears of the world are a constant quantity. […] (He laughs.) Let us not then speak ill of our generation, it is not any unhappier than its predecessors. (Pause.) (1.461)
(groaning, clutching his head). I can't bear it . . . any longer . . . the way he goes on . . . you've no idea . . . it's terrible . . . he must go . . . (he waves his arms) . . . I'm going mad . . . (he collapses, his head in his hands) . . . I can't bear it . . . any longer . . . (1.471)