Sleep

The greatest and only decision I've ever made in regards to whatever the hell kind of creativity I posses, was to be treated for insomnia. While undergoing treatment, I did various things, but I never did the one thing that I actually was supposed to be doing; sleeping.
The door holds something ancient and holy. A goddess or a demigoddess. A demoness the more I think about it. This door that I speak of is simply the door to my room. Does this mean that I'm being guarded by this ancient and holy demoness? No, she never lets me leave my room, she is no guardian. The other side of the door houses two rather hairy gentlemen. I believe that I am being watched by these ancient, holy, hairy demons and demonesses, but that's only as far as my bedroom goes.
The second door, I see an unfortunate looking family of three waiting for what I will go ahead and assume is a chance to use the restroom and I say that only because the door that I'm describing is the door to my restroom. Things are beginning to change and the unfortunate family is replaced by brutish men, walking this way and that, back and forth, back and forth. Once again, this is just the door to my bathroom.
The garden oddly enough appears to be a home for something other than plants. I take another look. It's not a home, it's a graveyard. People are extraordinarily crafted from all there was in the garden, grass and flowers. These people, yes I'm sure they are people, and they are suffering. This garden is only the garden right outside my apartment.