"the last at last seen of him himself unseen by him and of himself" A rest. The last Mr. Murphy saw of Mr. Endon was Mr. Murphy unseen by Mr. Endon… - Samuel Beckett

I began playing with the cries, a little in the same way as I had played with the song, on, back, on, back, if that may be called playing. As long as I kept walking I didn’t hear them, because of the footsteps. But as soon as I halted again I heard them again, a little fainter each time, admittedly, but what does it matter, faint or loud, cry is cry, all that matters is that it should cease. For years I thought they would cease. Now I don’t think so any more. I could have done with other loves perhaps. But there it is, either you love or you don’t.

From things about to disappear I turn away in time. To watch them out of sight, no, I can't do it.

No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.