I think that the holidays feel like frozen noses. I love walking with the dog for long periods of time.

Hopefully it's snowing and you've got to wrap up warm. So I think a frozen nose is a sweaty armpit

because your wrapped up so warm but then you're climbing hamps and heath and you get to the top

and you're like, and then you can see the breath but then your nose is still freezing to touch.

Joy in every sip with red cups now back at Starbucks.

Chapter 132. The symphony.

It was a clear steel blue day. The firmaments of air and sea were hardly separable in that all pervading a zooer.

Only the pence of air was transparently pure and soft with a woman's look.

And the robust and man-like sea heaved with long strong lingering swells as Samson's chest in his sleep.

Hither and thither on high glided the snow-white wings of small unspecald birds.

These were the gentle thoughts of the feminine air.

But two and fro in the deeps far down in the bottomless blue rushed mighty Leviathan's swordfish and sharks.

And these were the strong troubled murderous thinkings of the masculine sea.

But though, thus contrasting within, the contrast was only in shades and shadows without.

Those two seemed one. It was only the sex as it were that distinguished them.

A loft like a royal czar and king, the sun seemed giving this gentle air to this bold and rolling sea, even as bride to groom.

At the girdling line of the horizon, a soft and tremulous motion, most seen here at the equator, denoted the fond, throbbing trust, the loving alarms, with which the poor bride gave her bosom away.

Tied up and twisted, gnawled and gnawded with wrinkles, haggardly firm and unyielding, his eyes glowing like coals, that still glow in the ashes of ruin.

Untoddering Ahab, stirred forth in the clearness of the mourn, lifting his splintered helmet of a brow to the fair girl's forehead of heaven.

Oh, immortal infancy, an innocency of the azure, invisible winged creatures that frolic all around us.

Sweet childhood of air and sky, how oblivious were ye of old Ahab's close coiled woe.

But so have I seen little myriam and Martha, laughing eyed elves, heedlessly gamble around their old sire, sporting with the circle of singed locks which grew on the marge of that burnt out crater of his brain.

...