He could not write. The inability to write even a line of text without descending into a spiraling depressive rage had crippled him for some time now. There would be no change. This would continue to the end of his life. A mind full of ideas that were completely derivative of everything else that ever existed. The thought of this did not help in that there were infinite volumes of books that document the fact that everything is derivative of everything else, the death of originality and the end result of being saturated with information. It is not a good day for banana fish because they are extinct. Their swollen carcasses littered the beaches of the West and no one could explain why. Some had postulated that there was just too much and lacking the ability to discern between what was good and what was bad, they had gorged themselves to death on Wikepedia.
He knew that this too had been addressed and dropped his head in despair at the notion of his rote concept and trite allusion. Everyone was convinced that the world was going to end this year anyway; another symptom of information run amok. People had grown fat on useless information and took solace in the fact that they would soon be released from the torrential onslaught of data that they had to go through each day to make the world seem small and trivial. Something greater than them was going to come to kill them and this made them feel like human beings again.
He sat staring at the screen, writing sentences, deleting sentences, checking statuses (stati) for anything more than an overly clever meme, something of substance, maybe vacation pictures that could be analyzed to reveal weaknesses in relationships or the characters of those involved. He wished for a car fire or riot outside of his building to stimulate his survival instinct. After shifting in his chair for a while he looked up some videos of this material and watched rage with insulated satisfaction.