Narrative Script: Fiction
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call me a smile some years ago. Never mind how long Precisely having little or no money in my past and nothing particular to interest me on shore. I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul, whenever I find myself in voluntarily pausing before coffin warehouses and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street and methodically knocking people's hats off. Then I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and pull. With a philosophical flourish, Kato throws himself upon his sword. I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it. Almost all men in their degree, sometime or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings toward the ocean with me. There now is your insolence. City of the Manhattan toes, belted round by wars, is Indian isles by coral reefs. Comma surrounds it with herself, right and left the streets take you water would. It's extreme. Downtown is the battery where that noble mould is washed by waves and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water cases there.