"There is," wrote Melville, "one knows not what sweet mystery about this sea, whose gently awful stirrings seem to speak of some hidden soul beneath.... for here, millions of mixed shades and shadows, drowned dreams, somnambulisms, reveries; all that we call lives and souls, lie dreaming, dreaming, still; tossing like slumberers in their beds; the ever-rolling waves but made so by their restlessness." Also, so hey, what's the deal with that thing that washed up on the beach on Montauk?
