No sink gremlins hiding things and biting ankles. No cyber-Vikings climbing the walls. The ceiling wasn't a sentient hostile alien or on fire or moving backward in time. The food in the fridge had no clockwork microporcupines, and was tasty to boot. My laundry didn't make me forget the happiest moments of my life. My bed had no stashed Mafia cocaine, no plutonium, and no ancient curses. The floor was clean and not illusory. There were no Nomura's jellyfish making trouble. I wasn't my robot double, I didn't long for the salad days of the Crimean War, and I didn't even receive a desperate letter from my own ghost.
I wasn't sure what to do. I'd gotten so used to trouble I almost wanted to make some up.
It's been eight hours now, and I'm still tempted empty a dumptruck full of octopuses into my living room.