On the Outskirts of Boredom It seemed there was little left to undertake, not a thing that was worth the bother of, like unwashed plates or crumpled unmade beds, unweeded gardens, lawns that should be mown, that cupboard door still hanging by a hinge, children's washing rotting in a pile and lists of things to do thrown in the bin. Half a dozen novels in a heap confirmed his inability to end those tasks begun half-heartedly at best before the pall of ennui cast it's gloom, much like ecliptic light cast by the moon intervening where there should be sun. Bills unpaid and mounting on the shelf, the car besmeared and quite a riot of rust, the path unswept, a rot of autumn leaves, that smashed tile letting rain in through the roof and all he wants to do is have a rest, take evidence, think certainty is proof enough that, finally, there's little left but mounting an attack on those that shriek adherence to the chains of common sense; that petit bourgeois sanctimoniousness implied by Sunday roasts and polished cars, sane views on immigration and the fact we all know who's to blame for unemployment. The leaflet's half completed on the screen, the hard disk's unfragmented space is small. It crashes twenty times an afternoon until his anger dissipates like smoke and clarity that what he's doing is crap descends like waves of sunlight through a lens. The half drunk cups of coffee stain with rings the window sill he'd placed them upon. He finds another cup beneath the couch. The coffee's grey with spores of mouldy milk and, further in, the plate baked hard with sauce he'd had with pie and chips the week before. The campaign faltered then. He recognised the effort was not worth the anxiousness implicit in a project of this kind. He briefly thought of tidying the place before the evening news made sure he wept. Yet when his tears were hardly dry, he swept.