Every day I have an existential crisis. Every day around the same time. “Why am I here?” “What have I done with my life?” “Is this it?” “Will I do this for another forty years?” Not so long ago, forty years was a lifetime. There are at least two different people whom my only interaction with is to point out which day of the week it currently is. We share assurances. It is better, I suppose, than having an assurance alone. Fake outrage for dubious numbers always prevails. “We must do better!” I nod my head in agreement with the seriousness of an assistant to the regional manager. “What time is it again?"