In the hours without sleep, each moment is so full and so vacant that it suggests itself as a rival of Time.
"The Holy Ghost," Luther instructs us, "is not a skeptic." Not everyone can be, and that is really too bad.
Every thought derives from a thwarted sensation.
The mind is the result of the torments the flesh undergoes or inflicts upon itself.
What is that one crucifixion compared to the daily kind any insomniac endures?
Utopia is a mixture of childish rationalism and secularized angelism.