In a Quebecois suburb, a young man named Conrad wrote down his idea for a screenplay. It was the last new idea anyone could ever think of. He placed it in an envelope and was about to lick the stamp when the first waves of lassitude overcame him. He sat down.
The quiet spread, though no one knew why. Conrad's neighbors slowed, then stopped. Traffic became a trickle, until the highways were a parking lot. All across the world, everyone ceased their striving, their pursuit of endless goals.
They put everything down, folded their hands, and waited for the end.
Tapson on Tales and Totalitarianism
12 hours ago