Steve was so bored that he would have given anything to get out of his ennui. It got so pressingly urgent that he wished for the bus he was sitting in to have an accident. He wished to get sick, go to the doctor, and get told that he had cancer. He wished his dad hung himself, like he sometimes said he’d do. Anything would have been better than this.

Instead Steve was stuck in a giant pile of metal and plastic on wheels, with a downsized effigy of society in it. Traffic jam was hell to him, and so were the people around him. Hell was wanting to sneeze yet never reaching climax while simultaneously stubbing your little toe, and this felt even worse.

The bus ride had already taken so long that he had run out of things to think about. The emptiness in his head began to eat his soul. Steve always assumed that feeling too much was his mental problem, being overwhelmed, not knowing where to start, all that crap that he went through every insomniac night. But no, it was the emptiness that slowly killed him.

Like saturated steam shortly before a hot summer thunderstorm the boredom soaked into his jeans, climbed up his legs, crawled under his skin, and melted into his blood. From there it spread through his entire body, enfolding one organ after another. Steve felt his shutdown coming. Soon he’d be completely dissolved in nothingness.

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