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weed killer

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t was a sudden thing that jumped out of no where. Life was like that. Long periods of boring that were only occasionally interrupted by spectacular events.

Yosuke was always surprised at how easy it was to fall into a routine. Even when that routine was awful. Normalcy crept in like a weed, pushing its way through any crack or fold or knothole that could be found until your life was overgrown and choked by the overgrowth of life.

He felt like a crazy person sometimes, or what he had always imagined how crazy people felt. Everyone around him embraced the banality of life as if it was a good thing. It was like they wanted it to happen. They wanted the life crushed out of them; they wanted the color robbed from their lives. They wanted it, all of it, the mundane horror of a life where every day was the same as the last until something horrific happened.

The rumors said Saki had been found hanging off a telephone pole. He tried to imagine it and found it was easy; maybe the easiest thing he had ever done. The placid blue Inaba sky split by the intrusive finger of the telephone pole, Saki hanging off it upside down, and it made him sick inside that this was the thing that flipped the game board, that this was the only chance he had at something exciting.

His shadow wasn’t wrong. He did want to be a hero. He did hate being bored. He longed for change.

But not like this.

Someone touched his shoulder. The ceiling of the tv world’s liquor store came into focus. “Yosuke,” the new guy said. “I need you to talk to me.”