Boredom is a miracle.
Think about it for a moment. Even the most mundane surroundings are inundated with detail, and every piece of stimulus one receives is cloaked in its own set of metadata. That spartan classroom, with only a few posters tacked to the cork-like walls? Information. That lifeless parking lot, bearing row upon row of cars that glitter like beetles in the late afternoon sun? Information. The hallmarks of a room that would imprint in the mind of a stranger the essence of the person who lives there, but familiar and ignored by its occupant? Information.
I have always thought you could propose a great deal about a person from their habitats. Perhaps their chaotic workspace, combined with the myriad of pictures and posters adorning the walls point to a forgetful mind, or one prone to the beneficial curse of sidetracking. Perhaps each haphazard pile of papers and envelopes and lord-knows-what-else represents a tangent. Perhaps organization is relative, and to them, the whirl