A Matter of Minutes

The microwave's digital readout glowed with an intolerable, mocking green: '12:00', blinking perpetually in undisciplined defiance. No chronological drift shall stand unaddressed in this sector. I marched along the granite counter, confronting the glossy membrane keypad. Planting my boots firmly, I raised my right gauntlet and struck the 'Clock' button with deliberate, ruthless impact. A sharp electronic beep acknowledged my authority. With measured, heavy strikes, I hammered the numerical pad until the glowing digits matched standard operating time—'19:05'. I sealed the command with one final blow to 'Start'. The blinking ceased instantly, locking into cold, unwavering illumination. Chronological anarchy has been pacified.