Fingers tap on every item in reach. The ticking of the clock seems to grow louder as the seconds progress. Tapping feet begin to prickle as they slowly fall asleep, and one can feel the hairs atop their head sprouting new roots and growing longer. Cross, then uncross the legs; neither position is comfortable. A thousand thoughts streaming in the mind, yet not one to hold on to. The tapping and ticking are leaving imprints on the brain, like an overplayed song on the radio. Gazing up at the second hand only seems to make it move slower. A door opens somewhere, a door closes. Footprints approach the menacing, silent chamber in which not one soul is filled with a happy thought, for every mind is occupied with another purpose: waiting.