"Nothing to say, not a squeak. What's a year now? The sour cud and the iron stool. (Pause.) Revelled in the word spool. (With relish.) Spooool! Happiest moment of the past half million. (Pause.) Seventeen copies sold, of which eleven at trade price to free circulating libraries beyond the seas. Getting known. (Pause.) One pound six and something, eight I have little doubt. (Pause.) Crawled out once or twice, before the summer was cold. Sat shivering in the park, drowned in dreams and burning to be gone. Not a soul. (Pause.) Last fancies."
- Samuel Beckett, Krapp's Last Tape
2x3x7 turns two today.
I considered writing a post about it, then figured I couldn't do better than direct you to this most glorious and ineffable of all birthday poems.
Well, sort of.