They are stupid and heavy, without imagination.

The Abyss seems to exude a stupefying atmosphere of torpor, which wraps about them and deadens them.
Religion passes them by.

The Unseen holds for them neither terror nor delight.

They are unaware of the Unseen; and the full belly and the evening pipe, with their regular "arf an' arf," is all they demand, or dream of demanding, from existence.
This would not be so bad if it were all; but it is not all.

The satisfied torpor in which they are sunk is the deadly inertia that precedes dissolution.