You walk up a short ramp marked "Arrivals" and into the terminal building, getting in line behind the other passengers from your flight at the immigration desk.  The immigration area is a cavernous room, completely bereft of any paintings, murals, signs, or other adornment.  The room's only content, besides a bunch of sweating tourists, is a couple of counters, behind which sit dark-skinned immigration officers in powder blue uniforms.  The immigration officers are methodically checking the passports and documents of each passenger.

Time passes.

You check you watch.  You rock back and forth on your heels and quietly hum to yourself for a while. You begin to feel individual cells in your body being created by mitosis, diligently doing whatever it is cells do for their entire lifetime, then dying off of old age, all while you stand there.

Time continues to pass, but the line doesn't seem to be moving.