Loomings

Call me Ishmael... Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly Novemer in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily 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 deliberatley stepping into the street, and metholdically knocking people's hats off -then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my subsitute for pistol and ball...

It's weird where we find relief for our everyday life. Sometimes I want to walk around outside. Away from the city.