Place of Boredom

He found himself in a mysterious place of boredom. Not the kind of agitated boredom that one might try to extinguish. It was a boredom which seemed to ooze from everything as the fresh rain oozed, gripping him, so that his eyes met with the bored arched fronds of buddleia and those bored beads of rain that glinted on the tension of a curved leaf, and his body slowly moved from task to task, room to room, just as that young brown blackbird was picking ripening black berries in the tangled bushes below.