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