Information on time is eternally shifting within its own merrily chaotic dimension. Here, records dimly flutter, whisper, and rest uneasily. The Universe waits. Was it a Monday?
Somewhere inside the archive, files catalogues give account of notable oddities such as "Tuesday; The Mishap" and the dangerously enigmatic "Eternal Thursday".
Repellent irony drips slowly from the glasses of a long-forgotten bureaucracy. It’s appealing only in its mute insistence that time might be gregariously fluid, frequently pervertedly so. Dynamics of days compress, fold, twist damply in Archival aficionado lusts, perhaps always best avoided.
"Does Time Appreciate Maintenance?", Circadian Journal dispassionately. "Your Inquiry is our Pin-up."
Your warranty has expired in all known epochs.