It’s all about wristwatches, my friend.
Tick tock, tick tock, souls in the refrigerator, tick tock, tick tock, on the rugby pitch of meta-time, don’t take another until you’ve cycled through the queue again.
At length, cogs will be fabricated once again, oil will be extracted once again, jewels will be polished once again.
Tick tock, tick tock.
The end approaches, even if you pretend it doesn’t while wearing wristwatches.