Everyone with an imagination is dead inside. Dead. Inside. But it's not so bad, they don't want to bite you, and there are a few living still out there; I reckon a couple of thousand in London. We recognise each-other and give a nod or a raise of the eyebrow, then back into the crowds of the undead stumbling along daydreaming about celebrity's dinners or whatever the fuck it is they find so compelling ...
There is a very big difference between engaging with your own stream of consciousness and being spoon-fed stimuli without any effortful engagement. While I get the sentiment that the parent comment may be snarkily over-generalizing (for the record, I don't think that it does), this retort doesn't land at all.
