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"If the punchy, claustrophobic anti-sociality of systems in the first lockdown suggested an especially dark vision of the future, the Motion for Black Lives road uprising of the late spring thought like its wondrous opposite—another in which systems were answering and being organized by the activities on a lawn, rather than those functions being structured by and shaped to the demands of the platforms. This is anything price our time and devotion, something that surpassed our compulsion to publish, anything that—for a moment, at least—the Twittering Equipment couldn't swallow.

Not so it wasn't trying. As persons in the roads toppled statues and struggled authorities, persons on the systems modified and refashioned the uprising from a block action to a thing for the usage and representation of the Twittering Machine. That which was happening off-line needed to be accounted for, described, evaluated, and processed. Didactic story-lectures and photos of well stocked antiracist bookshelves appeared on Instagram. On Twitter, the most common pundits and pedants sprang up demanding explanations for every motto and justifications for each action. In these issue trolls and response guys, Seymour's chronophage was literalized. The social market does not just consume our time with endless stimulus and algorithmic scrolling; it eats our time by producing and marketing people who occur only to be explained to, visitors to whom the planet has been developed anew each morning, people for whom every resolved sociological, clinical, and political controversy of modernity should be rehashed, rewritten, and re-accounted, this time around making use of their participation.

These individuals, using their just-asking questions and vapid open letters, are dullards and bores, pettifoggers and casuists, cowards and dissemblers, time-wasters of the worst sort. But Seymour's guide suggests something worse about people, their Twitter and Facebook interlocutors: That we want to spend our time. That, nevertheless significantly we might protest, we discover satisfaction in endless, rounded argument. That we get some type of pleasure from monotonous debates about "free speech" and "stop culture." That people find oblivion in discourse. In the machine-flow atemporality of social networking, that may seem like no great crime. If time is an infinite reference, why don't you spend a couple of ages of it with a couple New York Situations op-ed columnists, rebuilding each of American thought from first principles? But political and economic and immunological crises pack on one another in series, around the background roar of ecological collapse. Time isn't infinite. Nothing of us are able to afford to invest what is left of it dallying with the foolish and bland."

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