[One man to another. Of course it is. And Beckett wearily wonders why he'd even asked the question. Enoch means his words as comfort. So many things should be a comfort. So many things.]

The memory of Anatole is sand through his fingers. Not for him. He grasps at it nonetheless.]

More than a friend. [His voice is very quiet.] A brother in the search. My guide, for as long as I have been - myself. He'd been speaking of the end for as long as I've known him. And somehow, in three hundred years of friendship, I haven't managed to actually listen.