We – are we not formed, as notes of music are, For one another, though dissimilar; Such difference without discord, as can make Those sweetest sounds, in which all spirits shake As trembling leaves in a continuous air? — Percy Bysshe Shelley, from “Epipsychidion.” (1821)
You’re on Earth. There’s no cure for that. ― Samuel Beckett, Endgame & Act Without Words. (Grove Press January 12, 1994) Originally published January 1st 1957.