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The universal pervasion of ugliness, hideous landscapes, vile noises, foul language. . . everything. Unnatural, broken, blasted; the distortion of the dead, whose unburiable bodies sit outside the dug outs all day, all night, the most execrable sights on earth. In poetry we call them the most glorious.

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Margaret Atwood

I want everything back, the way it was. But there is no point to it, this wanting.