Ah if they could only begin, and do what they want with me, and succeed at last, in doing what they want with me, I’m ready to be whatever they want, I’m tired of being matter, matter, pawed and pummelled endlessly in vain. Or give me up and leave me lying in a heap, in such a heap that none would ever be found again to try and fashion it. But they are not of the same mind, they are all of the same kidney and yet they don’t know what they want to do with me, they don’t know where I am, or what I’m like, I’m like dust, they want to make a man out of dust.
Samuel Beckett, The Unnamable.