Someone turned the air in Orange Island purple. London has its pea-soupers, and Orange Island has its borscht.
I scanned the present company, whose vices were all spoken for, scanned the beach around me for anyone who might be present against my knowledge, and then, of course, excluded the possibility of myself. I reassured the company before me that none of us suffered from superbia, and thank goodness for that.
No one wears boots to the beach. That's preposterous!
This is the Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket, which is a novel by Edgar Allan Poe.
—I’m a creature of the night, one of the undead, nosferatu. Cursed by the light, I dwell in the shadows and subsist only on human blood, for all eternity. —You’re drinking coffee, Gordon. —And, erm… and coffee, sometimes.
No, we needed a vessel for you you-ness that is as similar to you as possible. In a way, sir, you’re actually very lucky your son died not long after you did.
I think my neighborhood is being pillaged by the Vikings.