I’m past living with this. I’ve given up. I can’t stand it anymore. The days drag by. I’m choked by the food I swallow, the shit I get rid of, and the words I say. The daylight that shouts at me every morning to get up. The sleep which is only dreams that chase me. Or the darkness that rustles with ghosts and memories. Has it ever occurred to you that the worse off people are, the less they complain? At last, they are quite silent. Although they are living creatures with nerves, eyes and hands—vast armies of victims and hangmen. The light that rises and falls heavily. The cold that comes. The darkness. The heat. The smell. They are all quiet.
We can never leave here. It’s too late. Everything’s too late.”
— The Passion of Anna — Ingmar Bergman