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Punched In

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?"

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