se encuentra en la incertidumbre,

invariablemente prosáica.

I miss my life.

Ah today isn’t the best of days. It’s a dark Connecticut afternoon, and it’s humid. I normally look forward to autumn as a season of crisp days with blue skies and bright colors. I look forward to scarves wrapped around my neck three times and mittens and the crisp sound of leaves fluttering in the air. Not today.