The conveyor pulls along identical cells, each a neat little “pocket” for someone else’s minutes: empty forms fit snugly against one another as the mechanical auto-rack draws in a fresh block of time and carefully places it beside the already packed ones. The camera tracks along the row — chairs, robotic arm sleeves, smooth spherical blanks — all humming within a single counting machine, where the main commodity is seconds, and the currency is the willingness to fill an open slot. Midway through, a panel flashes a curt “confirm,” and it becomes clear: there are no personal routes here, only a shared schedule, where your slice of time clicks silently into place between two others, just to keep the belt from losing tempo. Solar.w