Scribbled on a complementary popcorn bag

I gaze idly at the seconds ticking by on the digital clock before me. Almost time, I think. A few mundane tasks keep me busy as I try to ignore the incessant changes of numbers on the screen. Time. An imaginary measurement we created to make ourselves seem more permanent rather than to face our own mortality. Two minutes have passed since my last glance. What was I waiting for? My goal time of day and then what? Then nothing. The thought was so bittersweet. Still two minutes. I don't know why I only possess the ability to make this figment of my imagination go slower. I want to pick up the pace, to get to a point where something other than this nothingness is happening. Is that even possible? This job is so boring. The constant phrases of "would you like butter flavoring on that?" and "you know, for twenty-five cents more you could make that a large" seem to be coming from a source outside myself. Perhaps working a day shift is an out of body experience. But then why am I so aware of the clock? Four fucking minutes.