Limbo feels like this. Staying up till the wee hours, sleeping six hours, filling your days with internet searches and mindless computer games when searching for jobs you can’t have gets too depressing. What you do get to do isn’t even your work, a bit like ghostwriting. You seem to have a vague recollection of having places to go, people to go with, but that’s been centuries ago, when your days involved your own work, senses of accomplishment. And now your life is waiting. You aren’t even sure on what, but you’re pretty sure it has to do with paper.