The frigid air of a February morning pervaded the immaculate room, as the pale sunlight crept through the intricate stitches of the lace curtains and cast itself upon the rumpled sheets of Jordan�s bed. Noticing the upon his eyelids and the air upon his cheeks, he awakened slowly but remained in a supine position on his bed. About him, his room gleamed with immaculate cleanliness - not an object was out of place. With the pattern of an open, four-petal flowers, most accurately mirroring the form of daisies in bloom, cast about the room as shadows from the curtains, the immaculacy was insignificantly disturbed from its usual precision, for the walls now appeared as multiple shades of a melancholy gray. Indeed, precision and immaculate aptly described Jordan�s space, which strangely did not resemble that of other sixteen-year-old boys. Rock posters did not adorn his walls, his clothes were neatly folded or hung from metal hangers in his closet, and no dirt could be found on any object precisely spaced on the wooden shelves at one side of his room.
Previously ensconced in a dream about his imminent death, Jordan remained upon his back, with a blanket over his body. Realizing that this vision was merely transient, he surveyed his space and sighed out of relief and disappointment. The day remained Wednesday, school commenced in an hour, and a recent snowfall smothered the ground and clung to the world about like a white fungus. Despite the cold, beads of sweat clung to Jordan�s forehead like the snow to the branches of the dead tree outside his window. Outside, the tree stoically stood like a statue or sentinel guarding Jordan�s pristine space. Yet, neither flowering in spring nor shedding leaves in fall, it painfully symbolized Jordan�s, and every being�s, fate.
The clock on an adjacent table to his bed read seven hours and fifteen minutes; another fifteen minutes would pass before his cock would sing its cacophonic, monotonously shrill tone like that of a piccolo. Although lethargy and lassitude usurped him his morning, Jordan managed to rise from his enigmatic dream and sit erect in his bed; however, with the air now brushing against his arms and nape, he kept a blanket wrapped about is shoulders. In his closet, gray pants and a white shirt, both of which were recently ironed, hung. Motivated to escape the coarse air that ubiquitously spread throughout his room in the winter months, he stood, mechanically walked toward his closet, and changed. Mirroring the state of his room, Jordan appeared immaculate, as well, as he glanced at himself in a mirror, which had neither cracks nor minor scratches upon its surface. After tying a black necktie about his collar, he stared intensely into the mirror to comb his hair, parting it down the center of his scalp. To his chin, his brown hair fell, and not one strand strayed or appeared superfluous.
In a stacked pile appearing like a pyramid, Jordan�s books laid upon a table. Before removing them, however, he furtively glanced at his clock. The hands indicated seven hours and thirty-five minutes. Bizarre, thought he in recollection the fact that the alarm had not sounded. Sitting at the edge of his bed, he intensely observed the movements of the hands for the next five minutes, as if their repetitive motions would determine his destiny. Within that transitory period, however, no shrill pitches disrupted the silence of the room, which would have been ideal for any Medieval monk. Succumbing to the fact that he may have indeed forgot to reset the alarm during the prior evening, Jordan rose from his bed and indifferently grabbed his books, before opening the door to leave. Glancing over his shoulder, before partially closing the door behind him, he instantly became replete with melancholia, as if a saturnine poison flow blood, flowed through his blood, from a sudden injection, to his heart. As his face distorted with his horrification, he upbraided himself for not appropriately folding his sheets upon his bed and leaving his clothes from the night in a misshapen pile upon the floor. Immaculacy no longer pervaded the room, and he stalked over to his bed to correct his egregious errors.
In the midst of folding his sheets, Jordan noticed a series of punctuated and repetitive, but monotonous nevertheless, pitches sounding from his clock, which now read seven hours and fifty minutes. The pitches resembled nothing like those from a piccolo. On the contrary, they resonated like those from the low range of a contrabassoon. The suddenly habitual, continual ticking drew into a crescendo, as if the movements of the second hand became amplified, and Jordan glanced outside at the sky, which remained pale as if it were the skin of a moribund man. However, merely surreptitiously glancing at the sky, he gazed at the tree, which, despite its snow-encrusted branches, was covered with intermittently dispersed pink blossoms, like those that he remembered growing on the tree as a child. Their sweet, enrapturing scent enveloped him with bliss as he laid the sheets at the foot of his bed, without acknowledging their sordid state. Unloosening his necktie and unbuttoning the top button on his shirt, he again sat down, with the melancholy, morose sensation continuing to stream into his heart. As he cogitated for a moment, another notion dawned on him, as he surveyed the scene, and horrified him even more than the realization of his unkempt room. The dream had not terminated, realized he, and indeed, it merely commenced. However, this �dream� was no dream at all, but an eternity that stretched before him like a tortuous, cobblestone road. The alarm did not utter its cry to awaken him and never would. In the morning, it would resonate like the last call of a dying bird, but Jordan would remain in his supine position. Laying upon his bed again, Jordan stared at the ceiling above, which lost its pristine quality, as the clock�s terse, monotonous sounds intensified and resonated like a series of gun shots in a forest. Fingering his tie for a moment, he then halted his puerile behavior and closed his eyes, but did not feel the sunlight upon them. Vividly, he envisioned the pink blossoms outside his window and embraced his fate.