Bible Gateway John 1:

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.

He was with God in the beginning.

All things were created through him, and apart from him not one thing was created that has
been created.

In him was life, and that life was the light of men.

That light shines in the darkness, and yet the darkness did not overcome it.”

They find me, leave me, go towards me, come from me, nothing
ever but me, a particle of me, retrieved, lost, gone astray, I’m all
these words, all these strangers, this dust of words, with no
ground for their settling, no sky for their dispersing, coming
together to say, fleeing one another to say, that I am they, all of
them, those that merge, those that part, those that never meet,
and nothing else, yes, something else, that I’m something quite
different, a quite different thing, a wordless thing in an empty
place, a hard shut dry cold black place, where nothing stirs,
nothing speaks, and that I listen, and that I seek, like a caged
beast born of caged beasts born of caged beasts born of caged
beasts.
Samuel Beckett, The Unnamable
“Ever since I was fifteen, that is to say from that moment when I lost all that was left me
of my childhood, from the moment when I ceased to be aware of the present and knew
only the past hurrying into the future, that is to say into the abyss, ever since I became
fully conscious of time I have felt old and I have wanted to live. I have run after life as
though to catch time, and I have tried to live. I have run after life so much that it has
always escaped me, I have run, I have never been late and never too early, and yet I have
never caught up with it: it is as though I have run alongside of it.

What is life, I may be asked. For me, life is not Time; it is not this state of existence, for
ever escaping us, slipping between our fingers and vanishing like a ghost as soon as you
try to grasp it. For me it is, it must be, the present, presentness, plenitude. I have run
after life so much that I have lost it.”
― Eugène Ionesco, Fragments of a Journal

“I think we communicate only too well, in our silence, in what is

unsaid” Harold Pinter