A poem, if that's what you want to call it--or just insomnia

First there was a knock at the door and in I walked. The threshold was before my feet. Frightened steps. Beating heart. Roundabout, and lo, there was an echoing sound. A corridor. Light shining at the end, in one of those resurrection-type scenes. The blazing light at the end of the tunnel. Racing visions. Feverish pace. It is an archetype, a whispering in the frozen memory of the awakened.