Bradbury’s story had the protagonists’ comfortable lives stripped away from them in an instant. I have long had a story in my head about someone who chooses that kind of renunciation of their life, mostly just due to boredom. This is a small portion of that story:

Boredom (@ Scrawlers)

I have a habit of writing short stories.

But I never finish them. Rather, I write a couple of paragraphs that follow a loose outline, but never fully develop a character, or form a cohesive narrative. The stories I do finish often end with an abrupt plot switch, or the absolute opposite, in which the arc of the storyline dissipates into the disappointment of a not-quite ending. Somewhere between the violence and apathy of my writing, my life coasts along; five miles under the limit, on a straight highway, under a pleasantly overcast sky.

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