To My Newsfeed (third letter)

We’re drifters without drifting.  We’re still waiting to leave our waiting behind.  Someone has posted that they don’t think it’s more of the same.  Someone else says that it totally is – that this kind of shit makes them fume.  If you could scroll through yourself would you bother?  Would you click on 4 people taken to hospital after using phone app to identify mushrooms?  We’re waiting to know if we should wait to know.  Who deploys these sleep-inducing algorithms?  Let’s listen to Hank Williams again.
Pensioner’s waiting for leap year to come
And the young singer’s waiting to sing
And there’s a gardener outside a big estate
Waiting for the grass to turn green
The drunk is waiting for an easy mark
The hitchhiker is waiting for a ride
And the prisoner’s waiting for a prison break
And the surfer is waiting for the tide
We continue to find ourselves waiting to watch what is shown to be necessary in becoming ourselves as we wait.  Should we click on 15 Real Death Row Requests That Will Send A Chill Down Your Spine?  We are waiting to stop waiting on the results of what is assumed to be necessary in doing what we do as we wait. We’re drifting at a standstill.  We wait to stop waiting as we wait.  Someone posts that we need to use every lever to change the direction of capitalism. No more cynical reflections please.  No more critical defeatism.  We’re waiting for something to happen as we wait for something to happen.  We’re listening to more Hank Williams.
You know everything comes to a standstill
Nothing seems to make a turn
‘Cause the worm’s still waiting for the early bird
And the early bird’s waiting for the worm
And nobody wants to do nothing
Just waiting for a finger in the pie
And waiting for a call from a TV show
Or waiting for a rich uncle to die
Will you click on a new handmade cartoon picture of yourself ?  I remain unsure if I’m awake, if we’re continuing to sleep awake together, if I’m waiting as I wait, if I’m waiting to leave waiting on what has been shown to be necessary, if I’m something other than what this proliferation of waiting keeps making of me, continuously inscribed, as I am, by sleep-inducing algorithms.  Someone posts that we’re never more of the same, that we should stop pursuing an ‘authentic’ mode of political being, that the best thing about being of any kind is that it is never authentic.
Do we drift together as I wake up to Hank Williams?