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"If the punchy, claustrophobic anti-sociality of tools in the early lockdown proposed a really dark perspective for the future, the Action for Black Lives block uprising of the late spring felt like its joyous opposite—the next by which systems were answering and being structured by the activities on the ground, rather than these activities being organized by and shaped to the requirements of the platforms. This was something worth our time and devotion, something which surpassed our compulsion to write, something that—for a minute, at least—the Twittering Device couldn't swallow.

Not that it was not trying. As people in the roads toppled statues and struggled authorities, people on the systems adjusted and refashioned the uprising from a block action to an item for the consumption and representation of the Twittering Machine. What was happening off-line needed to be accounted for, described, evaluated, and processed. Didactic story-lectures and images of properly stacked antiracist bookshelves seemed on Instagram. On Facebook, the most common pundits and pedants jumped up demanding explanations for every slogan and justifications for each action. In these concern trolls and answer guys, Seymour's chronophage was literalized. The cultural industry does not just eat our time with countless stimulus and algorithmic scrolling; it eats our time by producing and marketing individuals who exist and then be told, visitors to whom the planet has been created anew every day, people for whom every resolved sociological, clinical, and political discussion of modernity must certanly be rehashed, rewritten, and re-accounted, now using their participation.

These people, making use of their just-asking issues and vapid start letters, are dullards and bores, pettifoggers and casuists, cowards and dissemblers, time-wasters of the worst sort. But Seymour's book suggests something worse about us, their Twitter and Facebook interlocutors: That we need to spend our time. That, however significantly we might protest, we discover pleasure in endless, circular argument. That individuals get some sort of fulfillment from monotonous debates about "free speech" and "stop culture." That individuals seek oblivion in discourse. In the machine-flow atemporality of social media, that seems like no great crime. If time is an infinite source, why not spend a few ages of it with a couple New York Situations op-ed columnists, repairing each of European thought from first concepts? But political and economic and immunological crises stack on one another in succession, over the backdrop roar of ecological collapse. Time is not infinite. None of us are able to pay what is remaining of it dallying with the stupid and bland."

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