Although not inspired by it (chalk that up to a predawn trip to Haleakela Crater decades ago), I'm put in mind of this passage from the unique British stylist Denton Welch:
His dreams had been even more terrifying and wonderful than usual. He found himself lying full-length in an enormous open wound. The exposed, gently bubbling, cushiony flesh was very comfortable; but he knew that if he moved even his eyelid he would inflict terrible pain on the giant in whose wounded red bosom he lay.
In another dream, grotesquely enlarged diamonds waved about on long gold wires. They were contrived to look like sunflowers in a garden bed. Orvil was a very small child lost under the artificial leaves of these flowers. The wind blew; the diamonds rocked madly, backwards and forewards, banging their cruel facets against Orvil’s face. Like glittering, vicious footballs of ice, the huge diamonds struck his head, tearing the flesh till his eyes were filled with blood and he could feel the points of adamant ringing on white bone.
That's from a semiautobiographical novel, In Youth is Pleasure.
I found another book, A Voice Through a Cloud, more readable; it's an account of the aftermath of a crippling bicycle accident which eventually killed him (it took years).
Some writers compel interest simply because they write honestly and specifically about what goes on in their most peculiar minds. Welch is one such.