Erich Maria Remarque. The final (№ 197683)

Like a shapeless mist in the autumn nights, we are moving in the cruelty of life, not knowing how and where the evening wind, a cloud in the sky have more right to exist than we did, is a century, but everything remains unchanged, regardless of how we lived. Buddha or whiskey, a prayer or a curse, asceticism or debauchery - all the same someday we'll all be buried in the ground, why would we worship: his stomach or something unspeakable, female white skin or opium, - all the same...