There is a sort of dead-alive person about, who is scarcely conscious
of living except in the exercise of some conventional pursuit.  They
have dwarfed and narrowed their souls until they are, with a listless
attention, a mind vacant of all material for amusement, senselessly
pursuing sensation without emotion, working at play, playing at work,
afraid of silence, and not one thought to rub against another while
waiting at a red light.

    kg's modern paraphrase of R. L. Stevenson