In infinity, the concept of time exists only as a childish illusion—a measurement system for beings unable to cope with chaos. You, with your delivery notifications and your "expected delivery date," think you're suffering. You sit on the couch, stare at the screen, refresh the track & trace like a digital monk hoping for his faith to be rewarded. But imagine for a moment: if you were to live forever, what would three business days be? In the context of the universe, which has been crackling in its own endless void for some 13.8 billion years, your package—which you probably ordered because you were bored, let's be honest—isn't worth a breath. Time fades when you stop seeing it as an enemy. It becomes fluid. And then waiting is no longer a frustration, but a form of meditation: you stare into nothingness, and nothingness doesn't stare back, because even nothingness doesn't have time for that. Imagine receiving your package 900 years from now. By then, your tastes will have changed anyway. You'll unwrap it with archaic curiosity, like an archaeologist handed a 21st-century artifact: "A wireless charger? How cute." Or worse: "A shirt with a graphic? How tragically mortal I was."