Time

Time in a waiting room does not seem time, it does not have the characteristic features associated with time, it does not remain silent in the background, inconspicious, it stands up loudly and manifest itself visibly, and punchs you in the face as you yawn. It is a kind of surrogate for time, a distant relative, its worst enemy. It is heavy and thick, slow to the point of stagnation, it just does not seem to flow, it is something left to rot. It constrains you within a four-dimensional volume of a precious spacetime that will never again be, confines and leaves you amongst no affairs or circumstances, it cannot be cheated, it cannot be trusted, it is all of a sudden as amply available as utterly useless. Time in a waiting room is time that you notice with all of your senses, it is no money, it is pure waste, it is an irrational state, it is eventless, never kept nor done, it is nothing to be proud of, nothing to write home about.