Erich Maria Remarque. The November fog (№ 197596)

Street lights, like a sad tearful eyes in a dull gray mist, the gray mist crushing, this bosom of sadness, mourning veil, which for the past few weeks, as dropped to the ground. Bedspreads wet from drops of rain falling in monotonous silence, that deathly silence around me, getting closer, and so ominous, that I'm going deeper into myself and seemed to diminish and I feel like my face is darkened and wrinkled, he looked like a brown mask that wide open eyes stared into the void... I scream jump up and run out of the house into the meadow and wait for the sun to it with her feet-rays climbed the bars of the fog and scared off the Ghost. But it soars like a pink sail in a pale haze, and hopelessness like a hammer on an anvil, hits the heart, a tormented him, whispering and threatening, pulling frame by frame fierce film of memories from the fog of the past.