"The subconscious is their nectar, Isaac, don't you see? That is why they only feed on the sentient. No cats or dogs for them. They drink the peculiar brew that results from self-reflexive thought, when instincts and needs and desires and intuitions are folded in on themselves and we reflect on our thoughts and then reflect on the reflection endlessly... our thoughts ferment like the purest liquor. That is what the slake-moths drink, Isaac. Not the meat-calories slopping about in the brainpan, but the fine wine of sapience and sentience itself, the subconscious. Dreams."
— Vermishank, Perdido Street Station
"What do mortals eat again? Rocks? Fire? Gravity?"
— The Collector, The Owl House
Some eat the living. Some eat the dead. It eats the past.
