Buried in the island of the dead that which cannot be found except by those who already knows where it is. Find it, we did. And there be the chest… and inside, be the gold. We took them all! Spent ‘em, traded 'em and fritted 'em away, for drink and food and pleasurable company. But the more we gave them away, the more we came to realize. The drink would not satisfy, food turned to ash in our mouths, nor the company in the world would harm or slake our lust. We are cursed men, Miss Turner. Compelled by greed, we were. But now, we are consumed by it.
Same story, different versions. And all are true. See, it was a woman as changing and harsh and untamable as the sea. Him never stopped loving her. But the pain it caused was to much to live with, but not enough to cause him to die. It was not worth feeling what small, fleeting joy life brings.
Cuttlefish. Eh? Let us not, dear friends, forget our dear friends the cuttlefish… flipping glorious little sausages. Pen them up together,
and they will devour each other without a second thought… Human
nature, in'it? Ooor… fish nature… So yes… we could hold up here,
well-provisioned and well-armed, and half of us would be dead within the
month! Which seems grim to me any way you slice it! Or… ahh… as my
learned colleague so naively suggests, we can release Calypso, and we
can pray that she will be merciful… I rather doubt it. Can we, in
fact, pretend that she is anything other than a woman scorned, like
which fury Hell hath no? We cannot. Res ipsa loquitur, tabula in
naufragio, we are left with but one option. I agree with, and I cannot
believe the words are coming out of me mouth… Captain Swann. We must
For too long I’ve been parched of thirst and unable to quench it. Too long I’ve been starving to death and haven’t died. I feel nothing. Not the wind on my face nor the spray of the sea. Nor the warmth of a woman’s flesh. You best start believing in ghost stories, Miss Turner…