Recently I had a conversation about depression and killing time: what it looks like now, in the age of the internet and all its fringe benefits.

When I want to kill time I become so concerned with the how that I plunge headlong into a gluey kind of idle that is self-aware, that manifests as: hours sitting cross-legged at the foot of my bed, looking at the wall and holding onto a book like a toddler and their one soggy corn flake. I am weighing out the most efficient way to do nothing.