The reality from which I become detached isn't particularly unpleasant. It's merely dull. In fact, I missed nothing at all today. There were no errands to run, the needful tasks were finished quickly, and no surprises arose. It's surprising how easy it is to become detached from a reality so mundane. When I was a kid, I would get bored on days such as this, but now I slip effortlessly into imaginary worlds without even realizing that I'm doing so. I suppose my time might be better employed with reading or some other such form of what is commonly considered to be self-improvement. Had the computer been capable of operating for a longer period of time, I might have spent the afternoon writing, or getting some order into the chaos of folders which has accumulated on the hard drive, but Sluggo's orneriness saved me from those useful activities. Sluggo, my co-conspirator in sloth.
Now that evening is here, I could spend some time describing the real world as it is, but, in truth, it is much the same as it has been of late. The day was bright and hot, the sky clear, the trees summer green. These are days of suspension, when little changes, and one barely notices the slow and currently stately march toward entropy. Tonight, the moon is nearing the full, and Arcturus glows faintly, waiting for the bear to emerge in the darkening sky. This year's crickets continue to chirp their brief lives away while the town settles down for the night, the traffic diminishing, and the windows going dark, one by one. The place is, in a word which conveys my utter lack of excitement and my minimal interest, undistressed. I think I might shower now, and then go back into my detachment.