They do not move.

A miserable, wretched, futile, tedious—anything but happy!—100th would-be birthday to the shade of Samuel Beckett, the age's arch-disquieter, curer of comforts, cragfaced clawer after perfect tersity. Let us remember, when trying to fail better:

"Better on your arse than on your feet,
Flat on your back than either, dead than the lot."