Lord Deliver Me From Myself.

We Term Sleep A Death, And Yet It Is Waking That Kills Us, And Destroys Those Spirits That Are The House Of Life.

The World, Which Took Six Days To Make, Is Likely To Take Us Six Thousand Years To Make Out.

He That Unburied Lies Wants Not His Hearse, For Unto Him A Tomb's The Universe.

We Carry Within Us The Wonders We Seek Without Us.

Sleep Is A Death, O Make Me Try By Sleeping, What It Is To Die, And As Gently Lay My Head On My Grave, As Now My Bed.