Quotes About Sleep

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake I pray the Lord my soul to take

Little rabbits, you know, always have games together before they go to bed.

Getting adequate sleep is a sign that the world doesn't need your attention for seven to nine hours each day. It keeps spinning as usual in its orbit. Who wants to admit that?

I am not a morning person.

He didn't look the least bit tired. A morning person, even after no sleep at all. It was disgusting.

Do the gods sleep well at night? I think maybe they do.

lay on my back in the dark. He was doing the same. "Edward," I asked. "Hmm," he said. "Are you a side sleeper, or a back sleeper?" "Back." "I'm a side sleeper, so no spooning, I guess." "What?" I laughed and turned over on my side. "Good night, Edward." "Good night, Anita." We slept.

I usually have to make you sleep on a job,' Edward said. 'Maybe I'm getting old,' I said. 'You're younger than I am,' he said. I smiled. 'Maybe I just got out of the hospital after being shot and spent the last few hours in a brutal fucking battle against killer zombies, and so I'm a little tired.' He

I could drink a pot of caffeine and sleep like a baby. It doesn't keep me awake or make me jumpy. It just tastes better.

Sleeping and waking—for him the states grew ever less distinct. Sleep gained in truth as waking lost the arrogance of certainty. Dreams, three-D and portentous, sported a logic no less satisfactory than that of what, by mere consensus, was called the real. Categories dissolved; things floated free of their names, and a kind of geriatric Buddhism became ever more unquestioned and serene.

I want to go to sleep and not wake up, but I don't want to die.

I won't take a real nap. I have this halfway place, a rest stop on the road to sleep, where I can stay for hours. I don't even need to close my eyes, just stay safe under the covers and breathe.

Too much sleep is bad for your health, Matilda. She slipped a freshly made ball of butter into a stone crock. It must be such a grippe, a sleeping sickness.

thoughts hidden there? If she can, what will she do? Call the cops? Send me to the nuthouse? Do I want her to? I just want to sleep. The whole point of not talking about it, of silencing the memory, is to make it go away. It won't. I'll need brain surgery to cut it out of my head. Maybe I should wait until David Petrakis is a doctor, let him do it.

Underground, pale seeds roll over in their sleep. Starting to get restless. Starting to dream green.

My goal is to go home and take a nap.

My bed is sending out serious nap rays.

I have this halfway place, a rest stop on the road to sleep, where I can stay for hours. I don't even need to close my eyes, just stay safe under the covers and breathe.

I'm just tired and I can't sleep yet. A woman's work is never done, isn't that what the fools say?

I think the Merryweather cheerleaders confuse me because I missed out on Sunday School. It has to be a miracle. There is no other explanation. How else could they sleep with the football team on Saturday night and be reincarnated as virginal goddesses on Monday?

Mostly I watch the scary movies playing on the inside of my eyelids.

The borders of consciousness are anxious enough, raw and desperate places; we shouldn't be dragged across them like struggling thieves as if sleep was a felony.

And as I lay there listening, with the sun filtering across me, I thought this was how it should always be. To be charmed from sleep by a voice like this, eased softly back into life, rather than by the customary brutalities of shouts, knocking, and alarm-bells like blows on the head. The borders of consciousness are anxious enough, raw and desperate places; we shouldn't be dragged across them like struggling thieves as if sleep was a felony.

I found out that the treatment for restless leg syndrome is a nice, tidy dose of Klonopin, a beautiful little orange tablet, every night. After I got my prescription, every night I got to drift away to sleep on a delicious benzo cloud.