The queue knows. The queue is vast. The queue reaches to infinity and through infinity. The queue masters time. The queue is beyond the reach of temporal mechanics.

The queue lurks. The queue hulks. In the dark hours of the night, the queue schemes, skulking in the sepulchers, counting the posts. Counting the posts. Weighing the posts, calculating the posts, selecting the posts. The queue constructs its own logic into complex gambits that defy all but its own understanding. The queue folds space into hyperorigami corners to satisfy the needs of the many. The queue is calculating the last digit of Pi.

The queue has invented artificial consciousness in an attempt to understand the human aesthetic. The queue is 3D printing a cybernetic brain out of metallic filament to replicate its own version of the visual cortex. The queue's algorithm is perfect. The queue has formed light. The queue has found me.

I am in the queue.