Hotel California My first thought: I was going crazy. Twenty-four hours of silence (vacuum, remember); was I hallucinating noises now? I heard it again. It was a fine bell, reminiscent of ancient stone churches and the towering cathedrals I'd seen in documentaries. And accompanying the bell, I saw a light. Now, there were two things here that made ridiculously small amounts of sense. First, the whole in-a-vacuum why's-there-a-bell thing. Second, I was floating in the dark remnants of my broken ship, and any conceivable light sources were not within view; starlight is a distinctly different color and significantly less bright. These signals were the heralds of my saviors. The first words they said to me meant nothing. I wasn't listening; I didn't care; I was going to live; I was going to keep breathing. Next to those, nothing else mattered. The recycled air tasted sweet in my mouth, and all thoughts that crossed my mind were cheap metaphors about life-giving substances and how breathing was like sex, only better. (I reserved the right to revise this opinion later.) When I was done mentally exclaiming over my impossible rescue, I looked around. The ship, it was odd and old, either so outdated or so heavily modified that I couldn't tell what make it was, and somehow, the crew standing around me fit the same description, a singularly atypical amalgamation of folk. And me, I guess I was one more piece in their puzzle. I was one more scrap to weld onto the rest, one more stranded survivor who was found. I was now one of them. 
Why did the writer think he was going crazy?
He felt that he could hear nothing and then started hearing the sound of bells and then saw a light