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 135. The Chase. Third day.

The morning of the third day dawned fair and fresh and once more the solitary nightmare

at the fore-mast-head was relieved by crowds of the daylight lookouts who dotted every mast and almost every spar.

Do you see him, Cryday-hab, but the whale was not yet in sight.

In his infallible wake though, but follow that wake that's all,

helm there steady as thou goest and has been going.

What a lovely day again. Word a new-made world and made for a summer house to the angels

and this morning the first of its throwing open to them, a fair day could not dawn upon that world.

Here's food for thought. Head a-hab time to think, but a-hab never thinks.

He only feels, feels, feels. That's tingling enough for mortal man to think audacity.

God only has that right and privilege. Thinking is or ought to be a coolness and a calmness

and our poor heart's throb and our poor brains beat too much for that.

And yet I've sometimes thought my brain was very calm. Frozen calm.

This old skull cracks so like a glass in which the contents turn to ice and shiver it.

And still this hair is growing now. This moment growing and heat must breed it.

But no. It's like that sort of common grass that will grow anywhere between the earthly clefs of Greenland ice

or in Vesuvius' lava. How the wild winds blow it.

...