A dark haze lay over the sky and fog seamlessly carried on throughout the fields; a quilt of aimless wonder that distorted a distant viewer s glance upon the far horizon. For such a dreary time of 2 p.m., one could guess it was mere 6 O Clock on a winter s night. For the sun laid to rest; snuffed out by a thick atmosphere of swirling vapors. As if some crack in the universe were to be slowly absorb all of the light through a vacuum of matter. The universe had placed it's own silver spoon over the flame while the earth waited for silence fading away; burning out. If one had plans of outings and gatherings, today would not be suitable for such events. On a spring afternoon here she sat reading by the light of a lamp. Reagan was to assume that classes had been cancelled, seeing as the area in which she lived was far too rural to make it into the city without experiencing troubles from the fog. She sat there with Gatsby in hand. Usually admiring the work of Fitzgerald, she caught her thoughts wandering today. She had yet to decide on a major and found herself in constant distress over university. Such thoughts often disturbed her usual state. Reagan solely longed for the pleasure of travel. But it was unlikely to become a reality. Her home, which had been previously owned by her grandmother, was a small rural two story cottage. It's white exterior had now faded with time and annual showers that brought creatures of moss. The posts on the front door had been repainted to a delicate blue, as well as the window seals and scalloped siding that enclosed the gutter; which ran across the top of the front of the cottage, just below the roof. The shingles were yet to be renovated; placed about in an untidy pattern of rotting wood. Milkweed grew about the bottom of the house in bunches. The many acres of swamp land had appeared to be a land of moss and mildew covered earth, damp with the leftovers of the past night's rain. The land carried on far out to a mass of trees and ponds and bogs. Passerbyer s were often so dull as to view such a land to be an aimless mass of muck. To see beauty in such an earthly dream would take the eyes of a dreamer as well. Reagan often found herself gazing upon such a dream with thoughts of technicolor wonder. How dissatisfied she found herself to be in such a dull college accompanied by dull people. Cambridgeshire in itself was quite a dull place despite the natural beauties it bestowed. Reagan did quite enjoy the south when first arriving, though it seemed to provoke the natural longing she now held for the adventure of travel. Perhaps it was the landscapes that haunted her with the eye for scenic beauty. In conclusion, Cambridgeshire held a glorious quaintness, though it s modest inhabitants and quiescent setting would never satisfy the unrest that ruled her heart. Reagan gathered her thoughts as best as she could and set her eyes back to her reading. Each word held no inner meaning as she passed them by. Unable to comprehend she folded the book shut and turned her body, so that she lay face down on the velvet chase, her lashes kissed the delicate fibers; now free of the heavy burdens they carried. How beautiful and serene it felt to close such eyes of exhaust and burdens. Once closed she felt possessed by some angel of peace; a liberator of spiritual means who came to free her of her sorrows. How glorious it felt to shut her eyes. With a lasting sight of such artificial things of the world, it brought stress to her soul. Darkness brought a glimpse of peace. With that she found herself asleep.