As soon as the call is connected, you begin reciting the script. It's on the screen in front of you, but you don't need to read that. "Good day, sir or madam," you begin, "I am calling on behalf of..." The line goes dead. Exactly ten seconds later, there's another tone indicating that the system has dial out to another unsuspecting potential donor.
"Good day, sir or..." The line goes dead. Ten seconds later, you get another call.
"Good day, sir or madam. I am calling on..." The line goes dead. Ten seconds later, another call sounds on your headset.
Ordinarily, this pattern would continue for roughly eight hours, occasionally broken by a fit of swearing, but manufacturing an entire dream realm is a lot of mental pressure. When coupled with the painful stress and tedium of an average work day, it's simply too much for one mind to bear. Somewhere in the course of your dream employment, perhaps three-hundred interrupted scripts deep, your brain starts to hemmorage. You wake for a fleeting moment, recognizing the warm moisture of blood leaking from your nose, eyes and ears, then die a painless death.