Erich Maria Remarque, “All Quiet On The Western Front”
Our thoughts are clay, they are moulded with the changes of the days; when we are resting they are good; under fire, they are dead. Fields of craters within and without.
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No one lies so boldly as the man who is indignant...How about this?...The temple bell stops but I still hear the sound...Make it a habit to tell people thank you...By plucking her petals, you do not gather the beauty...That which is false troubles the heart...
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