(This is actually a fictional, descriptive essay. It was completed as an naming for my college English Compostion Class. Enjoy.)
They told him that he save had twenty-four hours left to live. doubt and anger writhed in his skull in a acerbic embrace, each threatening to crush the life from the other. It was a quiet, rude struggle that lent strength to each vicious competitor alternately, the battles tide rocking back and forth in tempo with the fast pulsations of his heart. The blood pounded relentlessly in his veins, as if a crazed galleon master were at its helm, making each massive drum tangible in ringing ears and an aching chest.
        His senses were intensifying, as the doctors had warned that they would, and the typically quiet machinations of his body were beginning to establish their presence kind of loudly. Bleach-whiteness and cool against his naked feet, the tile floor reflected the phosphorescent sack tenfold. The quarantine chamber was intended to be devoid of adornment, so as not to be overwhelming, but even the bantam light he had had become a false sun. A pungent odor covered every porcelain and stainless firebrand surface - the smell of cleaning supplies.
        His heart was not the only thing that raced.
Finding no solace in his white cell - white grave, he corrected himself with a shudder - he turned his thoughts inward and backward; onwards things became out of hand. It was spring, he remembered. The morning was grey and heavy with the rains of the darkness before. A cool breeze carried the unmistakable smell of make headway storms through the slightly open bedroom window. The foreboding sadness that many rainy days carried was absent, replaced by a wise glow behind the clouds that promised a warm, sunny afternoon. Blustered by the docile winds,
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