Waiting For Godot: The Video Game

Play the full game here: http://vectorbelly.com/extras.html

“To go on means going from here, means finding me, losing me, vanishing  and beginning again, a stranger first, then little by little the same as  always, in another place, where I shall say I have always been, of  which I shall know nothing, being incapable of seeing, moving, thinking,  speaking, but of which little by little, in spite of these handicaps, I  shall begin to know something, just enough for it to turn out to be the  same place as always, the same which seems made for me and does not  want me, which I seem to want and do not want, take your choice, which  spews me out or swallows me up, I’ll never know, which is perhaps merely  the inside of my distant skull where once I wandered, now am fixed,  lost for tininess, or straining against the walls, with my head, my  hands, my feet, my back, and ever murmuring my old stories, my old  story, as if it were the first time.”
Samuel Beckett, The Unnamable (1954)

“To go on means going from here, means finding me, losing me, vanishing and beginning again, a stranger first, then little by little the same as always, in another place, where I shall say I have always been, of which I shall know nothing, being incapable of seeing, moving, thinking, speaking, but of which little by little, in spite of these handicaps, I shall begin to know something, just enough for it to turn out to be the same place as always, the same which seems made for me and does not want me, which I seem to want and do not want, take your choice, which spews me out or swallows me up, I’ll never know, which is perhaps merely the inside of my distant skull where once I wandered, now am fixed, lost for tininess, or straining against the walls, with my head, my hands, my feet, my back, and ever murmuring my old stories, my old story, as if it were the first time.”

Samuel Beckett, The Unnamable (1954)

“The long blue days, for his head, for his side, and the little paths for  his feet, and all the brightness to touch and gather. Through the grass  the little mosspaths, bony with old roots, and the trees sticking up,  and the flowers sticking up, and the fruit hanging down, and the white  exhausted butterflies, and the birds never the same darting all day long  into hiding. And all the sounds, meaning nothing. Then at night rest in  the quiet house, there are no roads, no streets any more, you lie down  by a window opening on refuge, the little sounds come that demand  nothing, ordain nothing, explain nothing, propound nothing, and the  short necessary night is soon ended, and the sky blue again all over the  secret places where nobody ever comes, the secret places never the  same, but always simple and indifferent, always mere places, sites of a  stirring beyond coming and going, of a being so light and free that it  is as the being of nothing.”
- Samuel Beckett, Watt

“The long blue days, for his head, for his side, and the little paths for his feet, and all the brightness to touch and gather. Through the grass the little mosspaths, bony with old roots, and the trees sticking up, and the flowers sticking up, and the fruit hanging down, and the white exhausted butterflies, and the birds never the same darting all day long into hiding. And all the sounds, meaning nothing. Then at night rest in the quiet house, there are no roads, no streets any more, you lie down by a window opening on refuge, the little sounds come that demand nothing, ordain nothing, explain nothing, propound nothing, and the short necessary night is soon ended, and the sky blue again all over the secret places where nobody ever comes, the secret places never the same, but always simple and indifferent, always mere places, sites of a stirring beyond coming and going, of a being so light and free that it is as the being of nothing.”

- Samuel Beckett, Watt