The War Has Ruined Us For Everything.

Little By Little Things Began To Assume A New Aspect. The Sense Of Insecurity Vanished, Words Came Of Themselves, I Was No Longer So Painfully Conscious Of Everything I Said. I Drank On And Felt The Great Soft Wave Approach And Embrace Me; The Dark Hour Began To Fill With Pictures And Stealthily The Noiseless Procession Of Dreams Appeared Again Superimposed On The Dreary, Grey Landscape Of Existence.

For Us Lads Of Eighteen They Ought To Have Been Mediators And Guides To The World Of Maturity, The World Of Work, Of Duty, Of Culture, Of Progress -- To The Future.

Someone Said To Me Once That A Cigarette At The Right Moment Is Better Than All The Ideals In The World.

I Want To Think And At The Same Time That's The Last Thing In The World I Want To Do.

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.