A balmy night -- particularly one on which the lit moon is almost perfectly round -- is highly conducive to sloth, both physical and mental. It invites one to spend whatever spare moments are available in the contemplation of the utterly trivial, and to laze about, accomplishing nothing. The stacks of books unearthed by my recent fit of cleaning remain unread. The basket of laundry remains undone. I lacked even the motivation to put a tape in the VCR. Every thought I've had tonight has wafted away, leaving no trace. I feel as insubstantial as the pale moonlight. I don't even care that I know from experience that this state is but one step removed from ennui, and that ennui is but one step from despair. Once again, I think I shall blame the lack of rain. The monotony of warm, dry days has left my imagination undernourished. My world might disintegrate around me and I would merely sigh and think Ah, well, so it's over. I am drugged with indifference. A nice thunderstorm might reinvigorate me, but none are in sight. I'll go to sleep now, and see if I wake up this afternoon. Should I sleep for a week, I'd probably not care. Hah. And this is my favorite time of year!