There are people who work very hard, outwardly, who do absolutely nothing inwardly, who are functionally difficult to differentiate from machines. Machines do not have souls. They do not have a flame. Such work is useless, in the final and most important analysis, or at least largely so.
And sometimes laying around for hours can be productive, if you have a productive spirit, if you are watching and listening, feeling and thinking. That is where new things come from. That is how you give birth, which we all agree is work of a difficult sort.
Such is my rationale, perhaps rationalization, in any event, of this particular day, as I watch clouds cross the sky and dream. I have organized my work life to be able to do this, and my guilt is likely more perfunctory than necessary.