We had set out in a rain of flowers to seek the death of heroes. The war was our dream of greatness, power and glory. It was a man's work, a duel on the fields whose flowers would be stained with blood. There is no lovelier death in the world. . . Anything rather than stay at home, anything to make one with the rest.
You really have to wonder why we even bother to get up in the morning. I mean, really: Why work? Simply to buy more stuff?