His body and his mind went about their different businesses. The former, freed from conscious instruction, breathed, rolled, sweated, and digested. The latter went dreaming.

But I think humans are innately religious as a species, so you don't need a specific excuse for examining the perversely unholy.

Leavening the flat bread of what we know, with the yeast of what we dream may come to pass.

There’s no conscious thing on the face of the world that doesn’t know dread more intimately than its own heartbeat.

Words are sexier than flesh.

Of course it’s the apparently tranquil periods that deceive us. Though our instruments or our senses or our wits may not be able to see the processes that are leading toward these clusters of events, they’re happening. The star, the wheel, the butterfly—all are in a subtle state of unrest, waiting for the moment when some invisible mechanism signals that the time has come. Then the star explodes; the wheel makes poor men rich; the butterfly mates and dies.

Life is short And pleasures few And holed the ship And drowned the crew But o! But o! How very blue the sea is.