I will sleep with the ocean bed.

Tonight will see to the end of us both.

To the last I grapple thee.

From hells heart I stab at thee.

For hates sake I spit my last breath at thee.

(at thee)

To the last I grapple thee.

From hells heart I stab at thee.

For hates sake I spit my last breath at thee.

(at thee)

I will sleep with the ocean bed.

(Tonight will see...)

I will sleep with the ocean bed.

Tonight and forever.

I will sleep with the ocean bed.

Tonight and forever.

I will sleep with the ocean bed.

Tonight will see to the end of us both.

I will sleep with the ocean bed.

Tonight will see to the end of us both.

(Adapted from Moby Dick, Chapter 1)

Call me Ishmael.

Some years ago,

nevermind how long,

I thought that I would sail about a little,

see the most watery part of the world.

Whenever I grow grim about the mouth,

hazy in the eyes,

whenever there's a damp November in my soul,

I count it time to get to sea.

Almost all men,

some time or other,

cherish the same feelings towards the ocean.

When the old Persians hold the ocean holy,

there're still deeper meaning of that story of Narcissus.

Because he could not grasp the mild, tormenting image of the fount',

plunged into it, and drowned.

That same image,

still seen in the rivers, in oceans, in winds and whales

--the image of the ungraspable,

the phantom of life.

That is the key to it all.