Ancient Reptilian Brain

You finally drift off to sleep, only to be met by a voice.
Ah, brother, again there is nothing — just a warm, primeval void, as black as the absence of thought itself. Your conscience, a mere speck, ferments within it, no grander than a solitary grain of malt. And truly, you need not lift a finger — what’s left to do, after all? Stay, sail with me through the Abyssopelagic Zone!
The voice is low and gravelly, like that of an old smoker, with a hint of joyful cynicism.

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