Sexta à noite. O estômago dói e, sem metáforas, não é o único.

Vladimir:
(hurt, coldly). May one inquire where His Highness spent the night?

Estragon:
In a ditch.

Vladimir:
(admiringly). A ditch! Where?

Estragon:
(without gesture). Over there.

Vladimir:
And they didn’t beat you?

Estragon:
Beat me? Certainly they beat me.

Vladimir:
The same lot as usual?

Estragon:
The same? I don’t know.

- Beckett, Waiting for Godot