When I think of progress. What do I think? I don’t think about boxes that use radiation to superheat my food in mere minutes. I don’t think of electricity, A.I.D.S. Research, or any sprawling metropolis. I don’t think of the endangered flora and fauna that are unfortunate enough to share our biosphere, internal combustion, or the limitless potential of nuclear power. I don’t. I don’t think about these things. When I think of progress, I think about a number. That number is six billion.

Six billion fucking people. Descended from apes and hating every minute of it. Six billion people toiling and troubling: From Chinese peasants harvesting grain, a woman who works the late-night drive-thru at Wendy’s 7 days a week, to sherpas, who’s only purpose has been transformed into helping rich white men climb Everest. Right on down to the rich white men themselves, sipping cognac from leather chairs seated on the veranda that overlooks a tired bayou. Six billion is a number I don’t even understand, being only one serving of it.

But when I look at people, in cars and buses, on bikes and skates, I think of progress. I think of time, and the number. I see the fleshy white girl wearing a trendy shirt 2 sizes too small, where her stomach spills out and competes with her belt for viewing space. I see her, and I wonder about time.

I think about the time these six billion apish organisms have. Not collectively, of course, but each and every one of them. That’s what it all boils down to, though. Time. And how much of it.

How much time we have to do what we want. I wonder if the people who in their younger years, work to consume what the box in the middle of their dwelling tells them is important, ever realize that the box is wrong? Do they ever figure out what is important? Or do they, like this chubby female that’s almost out of sight, with her accessories and makeup, continue their charted course until they expire? And then, their rotund younglings will perhaps continue to propagate the acidic dogma they were weaned on.

I see people, and I think: Six billion. I see a person, and I think: Time.

If one of the people that I see works 8 hours each day in a 5 day working week for a year, this person will have worked for 2,240 hours. If this person sleeps, and as I understand biology, everyone must, another 2,920 are nullified. This person, with the dreadlocks and Phish shirt, regardless of the counterculture he subscribes to, will most likely have about 3,600 hours every year to allocate as he sees fit. Holidays were omitted from the total working time, but if one were to factor time spent in the bathroom, the figures would surely cancel each other.

Three thousand six hundred hours a year. Not much. Certainly not enough. Now, if this same person were to live to the ripened age of 72 (the average life expectancy of an American male) and retired at 65, he or she will have 295,320 hours to spend. Ever. This is your life, and it’s ending.