I could not rest, Watson, I could not sit quiet in my chair, if I thought that such a man as Professor Moriarty were walking the streets of London unchallenged.
Arthur Conan DoyleAbout author
- Author's profession: Writer
- Nationality: british
- Born: May 22, 1859
- Died: July 7, 1930
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O captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done. The ship has weather'd every wrack. The prize we sought is won. The port is near, the bells I hear. The people all exulting. While follow eyes, the steady keel. The vessel grim and daring. But Heart! Heart! Heart! O the bleeding drops of red. Where on the deck my captain lies. Fallen cold and dead.
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The radio was on and that was the first time I heard that song, the one I hate. Whenever I hear it all I can think of is that very day riding in the front seat with Lucy leaning against me and the smell of Juicy Fruit making me want to throw up. How can a song do that? Be like a net that catches a whole entire day, even a day whose guts you hate? You hear it and all of a sudden everything comes hanging back in front of you, all tangled up in that music.
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