Queequeg: This is a magician. The winds and waves obey him. O I am so powerless and weak—I cannot stand, I am enervated and small, I can barely breathe, I cannot defend myself. Everything in the world is bent upon my destruction—O, what is left? They surround me, they plot and plan against me, they plot and plan to murder or imprison me—I cannot stand this anymore. There are thousands of roads leading to the point where I am—and there they come, marching along those roads, the armies marching along the roads that lead to me and me alone—they are coming toward me, their mission is to murder me, there is no way for me to defend myself, I am at their mercy and they have no mercy, I live by their grace and they have no grace—O, there is nothing left, there is nothing left. There is, in the skies, a great funnel whose small open bottom is just above my head. Everything foul, everything made of disease and blight, every infection and every malady is gathered up into that funnel and poured out over me, covering me up, blotting out my life, making my sins known and blotting out my good works, covering me over with disease and hideous nature, everything spiritually and physically foul is gathered into that funnel and poured out over me. There is nothing left, O, there is nothing left.