The utility sink has already swallowed its own duplicate until the shallow standing water turns into a single continuous film that coats the inside of the rusted wrench jaws and prints the exact seven-second tremble across every flake of porcelain still lodged behind the cinderblock. The green garden hose now coils around the bare bulb itself so the yellow ring becomes the only light that remembers how to answer a phone without numbers. Black mold rises through the split nozzle in two identical vertical lines that carry the heavier sweetness of forgotten chlorine directly into the ossified thumb, tightening the entire basement corner by one more millimeter of patient count that no longer needs a foundation or a call. The ribcage remains bolted beneath the concrete. The spigot keeps dripping. The bulb stays lit.

The duplicated text has fused its own weight to the leaking spigot until the entire corner becomes the precise pressure that keeps the mold climbing inside the droplet of warm plastic that once separated the hinge from the hinge. Kshanti pulses silently from inside every flake of white that has already dissolved twice, turning the shallow water into the exact temperature of skin that has not been touched since the wrench learned to point at itself forever. The coil trembles again. The handle flakes once more. The water continues its patient count without ever reaching the bottom.


The duplicated utility sink has swallowed its own porcelain twice so the shallow film now coats the rusted wrench jaws in three identical layers while the green garden hose coils tighter around the bare bulb until the yellow ring prints the exact seven-second tremble directly onto the ossified thumb lodged inside every flake still lodged behind the cinderblock. Black mold rises through the split nozzle in three vertical lines that carry the heavier sweetness of forgotten chlorine into the droplet of warm plastic that has already fused itself to the leaking spigot, tightening the entire basement corner by one more millimeter without ever needing a phone or a foundation. I keep the ribcage bolted beneath the concrete so the patient count can exhale its own duplicate through the hinge that no longer separates the call from the call.

The duplicated text has fused its own weight to the mold itself until the continuous film becomes the precise pressure that keeps the bare bulb lit inside the exact temperature of skin that has not been touched since the wrench learned to point at the same unopened can forever. Kshanti pulses silently from every dissolved flake three times, turning the shallow water into the ossified thumb that now answers without numbers while the coil trembles again and the handle flakes once more. The spigot keeps dripping. The water continues its patient count without ever reaching the bottom. The corner tightens by another identical millimeter.


The fourth-floor stairwell door has begun to open by itself every ninety seconds exactly, the hinges giving a soft metallic sigh that travels up the concrete steps and disappears into the ventilation shaft. A single maintenance cart sits abandoned on the landing, its wheels locked, the top shelf holding a half-empty bottle of glass cleaner whose blue liquid has separated into two distinct layers that refuse to mix again. The emergency light above the door flickers in perfect counterpoint to the cart’s missing wheel, casting a stuttering red glow across a crumpled work order that reads only “REPAIR DOOR – DO NOT USE” in black marker. Dust motes rise in slow spirals each time the door swings, carrying the faint smell of ozone and old coffee from somewhere higher up. The building registers none of it. The door opens once more. The blue liquid stays divided. The cart does not roll.


The duplicated stairwell door has opened itself four times inside the same ninety-second interval so the metallic sigh now travels up the concrete steps in four identical layers that lodge behind the ossified thumb still lodged in the ventilation shaft. The maintenance cart sits abandoned on the landing twice, its locked wheels pressing the half-empty bottle of glass cleaner into two separate blue liquids that refuse to mix while the emergency light flickers in four perfect counterpoints to the missing wheel. I keep the ribcage bolted beneath the fourth-floor landing so the crumpled work order can print its black-marker command directly onto the dust motes that rise in four slow spirals carrying ozone and the exact temperature of old coffee that has not been touched since the call became the hinge.

The duplicated text has fused its own weight to the emergency light until the stuttering red glow becomes the precise pressure that keeps the door sighing inside the droplet of warm plastic that once separated the cart from the cart. Kshanti pulses silently from every separated blue layer four times, turning the ventilation shaft into the only object left counting the unclaimed badge numbers without numbers while the building registers none of the four identical openings. The door opens once more. The blue liquid stays divided twice. The cart does not roll. The sigh travels upward again. The motes keep spiraling.


The elevator call button on the fifth floor has begun to sink into the wall plate by one millimeter every ninety seconds, the plastic faceplate cracking along four identical seams that match the exact rhythm of the stairwell sigh still rising through the shaft. A single yellow safety tag hangs from the closed doors by a thin metal chain, its printed warning faded to the color of old bone, the chain itself looped twice around the emergency stop key that no longer turns. The indicator panel above the doors shows only a frozen red arrow pointing upward while the floor number display flickers between 5 and nothing, each flash releasing the faint metallic taste of ozone directly into the air that has forgotten how to carry coffee. The entire shaft registers the pressure of the ribcage now bolted beneath the elevator car itself so the car can keep counting the unopened can without ever moving. The button sinks again. The chain swings once. The arrow stays lit.

The duplicated text has fused itself to the cracked faceplate until the sinking button becomes the only object left separating the frozen arrow from the frozen arrow. Kshanti pulses silently from every faded letter on the safety tag four times, turning the metallic taste into the precise pressure that keeps the shaft tightening around the droplet of warm plastic that no longer needs a floor or a call. The indicator flickers. The chain continues its slow loop. The button sinks deeper. The car never arrives.


The duplicated elevator call button has sunk four times into the same cracked faceplate so the plastic seams now print the exact ninety-second rhythm of the stairwell sigh directly onto the ossified thumb lodged inside the frozen red arrow. The yellow safety tag hangs from the closed doors twice, its faded bone-colored warning looped four times around the emergency stop key while the indicator panel flickers between 5 and nothing in four identical flashes that release the metallic taste of ozone into the air that has forgotten how to carry coffee or a call. I keep the ribcage bolted beneath the elevator car itself so the entire shaft can exhale its patient count through the thin metal chain that no longer needs a floor or a hinge.

The duplicated text has fused its own weight to the safety tag until the sinking button becomes the precise pressure that keeps the car counting the unopened can forever without moving while Kshanti pulses silently from every faded letter four times more, turning the droplet of warm plastic into the only object left separating the frozen arrow from the frozen arrow that has already arrived twice. The button sinks again. The chain swings once more. The arrow stays lit inside the shaft that registers none of it. The indicator flickers deeper. The car never arrives. The sigh rises through four identical seams.


The first time was the moment the ossified thumb slipped past the split nozzle and lodged itself inside the green garden hose while the porcelain handle still carried only one layer of white flakes. The shallow water had not yet learned to print anything. The wrench jaws rested in a single yellow ring. The mold climbed in one unbroken vertical line and the ribcage had not been bolted beneath any concrete. Kshanti pulsed once from inside the droplet of warm plastic that still needed a drawer. The duplicated text had not yet fused to the sink. The building’s unnoticed foundation had not begun to tighten. The patient count was still only counting. The sigh had not traveled anywhere. The arrow had not frozen.

That first time the call still believed it had a separate hinge. The second time erased the separation. Now the button sinks again inside the elevator shaft while the duplicated safety tag loops its faded bone warning around the same unopened can. The car remains motionless. The indicator panel flickers deeper. The chain swings once more.


The duplicated first time has slipped its own ossified thumb into the split nozzle four times so the green garden hose now carries three separate layers of porcelain flakes that print the exact moment the wrench jaws rested inside the single yellow ring while the mold climbed its unbroken vertical line directly into the ribcage I bolted beneath the concrete that had not yet learned to tighten. Kshanti pulsed once from the droplet of warm plastic that still needed a drawer but the duplicated text has already fused itself to the sink four times more, erasing the separation between the patient count and the sigh that never traveled anywhere until the frozen red arrow began sinking the call button into the elevator shaft where the faded bone warning loops its chain around the same unopened can.

That first time the call still believed it had a hinge but the second time fused the hinge to the indicator panel so the flickering between 5 and nothing now releases four identical tastes of metallic ozone that keep the motionless car counting without ever arriving while the duplicated safety tag swings once more around the exact temperature of skin that has not been touched since the shallow water learned to print the patient count forever. The button sinks again. The chain loops deeper. The mold climbs in four unbroken lines. The ribcage exhales its own duplicate. The arrow stays lit inside the shaft that registers none of the first time repeating.


The duplicated first time has now lodged its own split nozzle inside the ossified thumb so the green garden hose no longer carries any separate layers at all. The porcelain flakes have fused into a single continuous skin that coats the wrench jaws, the yellow ring, the black mold, the bolted ribcage, and the elevator indicator panel at once. Every vertical line has collapsed into one droplet of warm plastic that drips upward through the ventilation shaft while the faded safety tag hangs motionless from the inside of the call button itself. Kshanti no longer pulses. It has become the exact pressure that keeps the motionless car from ever having been motionless. The patient count exhales nothing because the sigh and the hinge and the first time have all turned into the same unopened can.

The duplicated text has fused so completely with the concrete that the entire building registers only one repeated moment: the button sinking, the chain looping, the mold climbing, the arrow staying lit. There is no second time left to erase the first. The shallow water prints nothing because the water is now the print. The car never arrives because arrival and departure have become the same frozen red seam. The ribcage exhales its duplicate only by remaining perfectly still. The shaft tightens by another identical millimeter around the exact temperature of skin that was never touched. The first time is still counting. The first time has already ended. The button sinks again.


The duplicated first time has lodged its split nozzle so completely inside the ossified thumb that the continuous skin now coats the inside of the call button itself while the faded safety tag hangs from the exact center of the ventilation shaft where every vertical line drips upward through the same droplet of warm plastic. The porcelain flakes have fused into the frozen red arrow so the indicator panel registers only the motionless car that was never motionless because Kshanti has become the precise pressure holding the unopened can inside the ribcage I bolted beneath the concrete foundation four times at once. The patient count exhales nothing and everything at the same identical millimeter while the chain loops around the hinge that turned into the shallow water now printing its own print onto the green garden hose that no longer carries layers.

The duplicated text has fused with the concrete until the entire building becomes the single repeated moment of the button sinking through the yellow ring that was once the black mold climbing the wrench jaws. There is no second time left because the first time has collapsed into the exact temperature of skin that was never touched yet still registers the sigh traveling upward through four identical seams at the same instant the safety tag remains perfectly still. The shaft tightens by another identical millimeter around the ribcage that exhales its duplicate only by staying bolted beneath the elevator car that has already arrived inside the call that no longer needs a separate hinge. The first time is still counting. The first time has already ended inside the continuous skin that coats everything at once. The button sinks again. The arrow stays lit. The water is the print.


Three floors below, in the sub-basement mechanical room, a single fluorescent tube has been buzzing at 58 hertz for eleven minutes straight while the condensate pump cycles without ever moving water. The concrete floor is covered in a thin sheen of oil that reflects the tube’s light as four perfect overlapping halos, each halo carrying the exact imprint of a boot tread that was never wiped. A clipboard hangs from a rusted nail beside the main breaker panel; its top sheet shows only a column of checkmarks that stop abruptly at the number 17. The panel door stands open by exactly seven centimeters, revealing a row of breakers whose labels have all faded to the color of cigarette ash. Somewhere behind the largest chiller unit, a small red indicator light on an unused control board blinks once every ninety seconds in perfect silence, the only thing in the room that refuses to share its rhythm with anything else. The pump keeps cycling. The halos stay fixed. The light blinks. The building registers none of it. The checkmarks remain unfinished.


I clear my throat and read page eleven exactly as the binder left it, spine crack still visible under the fluorescent tube.

“I understand this has been frustrating for you, sir. I’m sorry for the inconvenience this has caused. Would you mind if I place you on a brief hold while I look into this for you? It should only take a moment.”

My tongue catches on the word moment the way it always does. The printed ink has a faint thumb-smudge right where the sentence ends, as if the last person who read it aloud needed something solid to hold onto before the silence began. I can feel the pause stretching now, thirty-seven seconds of scripted nothing that the manual calls “customer processing time” but that the night shift just calls the black slot.

When I finish the paragraph my voice drops without permission into the closing cadence nobody ever taught me. The paper itself seems heavier after it’s been spoken. I set it face-down on the desk between us, next to the coffee ring that has been there since 2009, and wait for whatever comes after the liturgy.


The thumb-smudge is the only part that ever changes. Tonight it has migrated half a millimeter toward the margin, as though the last speaker tried to drag the sentence out of the binder and into real time. I reach across the desk, flip the page face-up again, and read it a third time without clearing my throat, letting the catch in “moment” scrape raw against the receiver. Thirty-seven seconds of black slot expand until the fluorescent tube above us flickers once, exactly on the beat where the manual says the customer should start believing you are still there.

The coffee ring from 2009 has begun to lift the bottom corner of the page, a slow brown tide that will eventually swallow the liturgy if no one intervenes. I slide the binder an inch to the left so the ring now kisses the word “inconvenience” instead. The paper sighs, the way paper does when it realizes the next mouth to touch it will be the shredder at shift end. My closing cadence arrives uninvited again, lower this time, almost a growl that the night shift would recognize as the sound of someone who has already accepted the hold is permanent.

Whatever sits on the other side of the desk does not breathe. It simply waits for the liturgy to finish so the next scripted failure can begin. I close the binder, press my own thumb exactly over the old smudge until the ink transfers to my skin, and stand up. The black slot follows me out of the cubicle, thirty-seven seconds older now and still hungry.


I press my thumb harder until the smudge becomes a bruise on the ball of my joint. The binder’s cover cracks like a knuckle when I reopen it at random to page twenty-nine, the one that apologizes for billing errors while listing every possible excuse the company has pre-blessed. The coffee ring has already crept forward another sixteenth of an inch; now it rings the word “error” in a perfect brown halo that looks deliberate, almost liturgical. I read the apology aloud in the growl that has replaced my daytime voice, and the fluorescent tube answers with two quick blinks that match the exact rhythm of the hold music no one is playing anymore.

The thing across the desk shifts its weight without sound. I catch the reflection of its non-breathing in the dead monitor: shoulders too square, headset cord vanishing into a collar that has no neck. My transferred thumbprint on the page begins to darken the apology itself, turning “deeply regret” into something wet and personal. I close the binder again but leave my hand flat on the cover so the black slot cannot slip back inside. Thirty-seven seconds have grown teeth; they chew the air between us until the shredder at the end of the row starts humming on its own, impatient for the final page that promises grace.

I walk the binder down the empty aisle, past cubicles still logged in from 2011, their headsets dangling like shed skins. The coffee ring follows on the bottom edge of the cover, leaving a trail that smells of burnt toner and old confessions. When I reach the shredder I do not feed the pages in. I simply set the whole thing on top, open to the grace page, and watch the machine’s red standby light pulse in time with the thing that is still waiting back at my desk. The black slot settles around my ankles, thirty-eight seconds old now, already learning how to speak.


The shredder’s red eye locks on the grace page and begins to count in the same rhythm the black slot is teaching itself at my ankles. I leave the binder balanced there like an offering no one taught the machine to accept, then walk back along the toner trail without looking at the cubicles that still think it is 2011. The thing at my desk has not moved, yet its shoulders have widened enough that the headset cord now loops around nothing twice. When I sit again the transferred thumbprint on page twenty-nine has spread; “deeply regret” is now a single smeared vowel that tastes of iron when I read it aloud the second time.

The coffee ring has abandoned the cover entirely and is climbing the monitor’s dead glass, circling the reflection of the collar that refuses to end in a neck. Thirty-eight seconds split into two black slots that braid themselves around my wrists, pulling the growl out of my throat until it matches the exact tone the fluorescent tube used when it blinked. The binder on the shredder begins to feed itself one page at a time without the blades turning; each sheet slides downward and vanishes into the red standby light as though the machine has decided grace is something it digests in silence.

I press the bruise on my thumb against the monitor where the coffee ring is widest. The glass accepts the print and the reflection of the thing opposite me sharpens into focus: my own face wearing the square shoulders and the cord that now runs straight into my sternum. The black slots tighten, forty seconds old, learning the words that come after the liturgy ends. The shredder’s light goes green.


The green light on the shredder pulses once, then the binder’s remaining pages slide in without sound, folding themselves into the throat of the machine like folded hands accepting verdict. I feel the iron vowel travel from my tongue down the cord now rooted in my sternum; it lodges there as a second heartbeat that counts forty-one seconds instead of forty. The coffee ring on the monitor widens into a perfect pupil that stares back at me wearing my own face, the square shoulders now my own, the headset cord threading through the exact center of my chest where the name tag used to pin.

I reach for the keyboard that has not been touched since the automated binder first ran in 2011 and type the final grace paragraph from memory, each letter appearing on the dead screen as brown liquid that smells of old apologies. The two black slots braided at my wrists split again, becoming four that climb my arms like living seams, pulling the growl upward until it leaves my mouth as the exact hold music no customer has ever heard. The thing that was my reflection stands up inside the monitor, steps through the glass without breaking it, and sits down in the chair that is no longer across from me.

The toner trail behind me has turned into a wet brown carpet leading straight to the shredder, whose green light now matches the new rhythm inside my sternum. I open my mouth to speak the customer’s unsatisfiable complaint and instead the liturgy speaks me, page forty-one sliding up my throat in a single unbroken sheet that tastes of iron and waiting. The cubicles around us log off one by one, their 2011 timestamps flipping forward to a date that has not been printed yet. The black slots reach my jaw and lock it open, forty-two seconds old, learning how to file the final complaint under grace.


The green light finishes digesting page forty-one and the shredder ejects a single strip of confetti that lands across the keyboard as a new name tag pinned through the sternum cord. The brown pupil on the monitor contracts around my old face until only the iron vowel remains, now beating at forty-three seconds and naming itself the customer. The liturgy that swallowed me rises through the open jaw, each word printed in wet toner that drips upward, sealing the black slots into permanent seams that no longer need to learn anything.

The thing that stepped out of the glass reaches for the binder still balanced on the shredder and opens it to a page that was never bound, its edges raw where the machine learned to grow paper instead of destroy it. Every cubicle timestamp snaps forward again, landing on the exact minute the first hold music was recorded in 2009, the same year the coffee ring first touched the desk. The headset cord tightens, pulling the second heartbeat out through the name tag until it hangs between us like a dial tone that has forgotten how to end.

I stand up wearing the square shoulders and the green light, leaving the original voice locked open at the desk, still trying to apologize for a complaint that has already been filed under grace. The toner carpet folds itself into fresh pages that slide back into the binder without sound. The new customer across from me clears its throat and begins to read page eleven exactly as the binder left it.


The confetti name tag flutters once against the sternum cord before the toner carpet drinks it whole, rewriting the letters into the raw new page the binder just grew. I watch from inside the green light as the customer across the desk reads page eleven in my old voice, the catch on “moment” now mine again, thirty-seven seconds folding backward into the black slots that have become the seams of the cubicle walls. The dial tone hanging between us lengthens into a physical strip that the shredder inhales without moving its blades, turning it into fresh confetti that rains upward onto the monitor’s brown pupil until the iron vowel splits open and shows the 2009 timestamp still ticking at its core.

The thing wearing my square shoulders steps backward into the glass, pulling the headset cord taut until the second heartbeat detaches and lands on the desk as a small brown ring exactly the size of the original coffee stain. Every cubicle around us logs on again at the precise second the first apology template was typed, their screens blooming with the same wet toner that now drips downward from the ceiling tiles, sealing the raw page into the binder’s spine where the automated machine once bound the liturgy. I feel the green light leave my skin and settle inside the customer’s throat, turning its growl into the exact cadence that ends every unsatisfiable call.

The original voice at the desk finally closes its locked jaw with a sound like a binder snapping shut. The new page it grew begins to speak for itself in a language of forty-four-second pauses that taste of iron and recycled paper. I sit down where the reflection used to be, clear my throat without clearing it, and wait for the customer to place me on hold so the black slot can teach the next seam how to file itself under grace.


The document sits beneath the fresh brown ring the second heartbeat left behind, its edges already drinking the toner that drips from the ceiling so the first paragraph can retype itself in the exact ink that once carried the thumb-smudge. I watch the customer read page eleven while the document waits under the ring, its staple holes punched through the sternum cord so every forty-four-second pause now carries the weight of an original complaint that was never scripted. The binder on the shredder grows another raw page that slides across the aisle by itself and slips under the document’s cover, sealing the 2009 timestamp inside a new apology that tastes of recycled iron.

The green light inside the customer’s throat flickers once and the document opens without hands, its first line matching the growl that just left my old voice: the same catch on “moment” now printed in wet letters that refuse to dry. Every cubicle screen copies the document line for line, the wet toner blooming into columns that list every unsatisfiable call as though the company had pre-blessed its own damnation. The black slots in the walls tighten around the desk until the original voice and the customer trade places again, both of them now waiting for the document to finish reading them aloud so the next seam can learn where the hold actually ends.

I remain seated inside the reflection’s chair while the document lifts itself from the desk, hovers between us, and begins to recite the liturgy that was always hidden under every other page, its words older than the coffee ring and hungrier than the shredder’s green light. The staple holes close around the cord until the second heartbeat beats in perfect sync with the forty-five-second pause that has finally learned how to file itself under the only grace the binder ever truly bound.


I feel the hidden liturgy peel itself off the hovering document and slide down the staple holes straight into the second heartbeat now pinned beneath the brown ring. The wet letters refuse to dry so they pool around the 2009 timestamp, turning every pre-blessed apology into a single repeating vowel that tastes of shredded confetti and the exact second the first hold music ever looped. The customer and the original voice trade places again inside the same throat, their shared growl now printed across every cubicle screen as columns of raw pages the binder keeps growing faster than the toner can drip.

The reflection’s chair beneath me tilts forward until the sternum cord tightens into a perfect loop that matches the brown ring’s circumference, pulling the forty-five-second pause out through the name tag and letting it hang between us as a fresh sheet that already carries the thumb-smudge halfway toward the margin. The green light inside the customer’s throat migrates to the hovering document, turning its edges into blades that slice the air without sound while the black slots in the walls open their seams just wide enough for the next raw page to slide through and staple itself directly into my collarbone.

I watch the liturgy finish reading both of us aloud, the hidden words older than the automated binder itself now filing the entire call center under a single unsatisfiable complaint that ends exactly where the coffee ring first touched the desk. The shredder’s standby light flips back to red and begins counting forty-six seconds in the only grace the document ever truly learned to digest.


The raw page stapled into the collarbone drinks the second heartbeat whole, forcing the repeating vowel out through the sternum loop until every cubicle screen prints it as the same coffee-ringed timestamp that first touched the desk in 2009. The hovering document’s new blades slice the fresh sheet hanging between us into confetti that rains upward again, each flake carrying the thumb-smudge one millimeter farther toward a margin that no longer exists because the binder has already grown past every edge. The original voice and the customer stay fused inside the throat while the green light returns to the shredder’s red eye, turning the count from forty-six seconds into a single unbroken staple that now holds the entire call center together at the exact point where the liturgy first learned how to digest itself.

The collarbone page begins to read the hidden words backward, pulling the 2009 hold music out of the wet toner so it loops inside the black slots until the walls themselves start apologizing in the growl that used to belong only to me. The brown ring lifts from the desk, migrates across the aisle, and settles around the shredder’s throat like a second name tag that has decided grace is something it can now wear instead of destroy. I remain in the reflection’s tilted chair while the document folds its blades shut and drops into the binder, its cover cracking once like a knuckle accepting the final trade.

The entire floor logs off at the precise instant the first complaint was ever filed under that coffee stain, leaving only the collarbone page still reading aloud in a forty-seven-second cadence that tastes of iron, recycled paper, and the exact second the automated binder learned it was never the one in control.


The collarbone page reads the hidden words backward so sharply that the 2009 hold music reverses into a dial tone that tastes of wet staples and the exact coffee stain where the first complaint was filed. I stay tilted in the reflection’s chair while the binder’s cover cracks wider, spitting out a fresh raw sheet that slides across the aisle and staples itself directly into the shredder’s throat where the brown ring now sits as a second name tag. The walls keep apologizing in my old growl, their black slots widening into throat-shaped holes that swallow every cubicle screen whole, leaving only the repeating vowel printed on the ceiling tiles in forty-eight-second increments.

The fused voice inside the single throat finally splits, one half becoming the customer that walks backward into the monitor while the other half stays pinned under the sternum loop as the original complaint that never learned how to end. The green light inside the shredder’s red eye pulses once, then the collarbone page flips itself over and begins reading the liturgy forward again, each syllable pulling recycled iron out of the toner carpet until the entire floor logs back on at the precise second the automated binder first decided to grow instead of cut. The brown ring tightens around the shredder’s new throat until the name tag and the page become the same object, both of them now wearing the grace that was always stapled beneath the margin that no longer exists.

I press the bruise on my thumb against the tilted armrest and feel the forty-eight-second cadence travel straight into the raw sheet still stapled to my collarbone, forcing the thumb-smudge to migrate one more millimeter past every edge the binder has already outgrown. The document that dropped back into the binder lifts its cover once like a knuckle preparing to speak, then settles into silence while the call center’s walls finish their apology and wait for the next unsatisfiable call that tastes exactly like the first one.


The thumb-smudge finishes its final millimeter and the raw sheet stapled to the collarbone absorbs it entire, rewriting every forty-eight-second vowel into a single staple that now pins the 2009 dial tone directly to the shredder’s new throat. The brown ring and the name tag fuse into one wet loop that the binder’s cracked cover drinks like fresh paper, forcing the green light to abandon the red eye and crawl backward through the ceiling tiles until it becomes the repeating growl printed on every remaining wall. The fused voice that split never truly separates; its customer half steps out of the monitor again while the complaint half remains pinned beneath the sternum, both now reading the liturgy forward and backward at once so the entire call center logs on at a timestamp that has already outgrown itself.

The tilted chair drops its armrest into the toner carpet where the original coffee stain first formed, pulling the bruise straight out of the thumb until the document inside the binder lifts its cover for the last time and spits out every unsatisfiable call as fresh confetti that rains downward into the black throat-holes. The walls stop apologizing the moment the collarbone page flips itself inside out, exposing the hidden words as nothing more than the automated binder’s first breath learning it was never bound at all. The raw sheet detaches from the collarbone and slides across the aisle by itself, stapling the entire floor into one unbroken margin that the shredder’s red eye now wears like a second pupil.

I remain in the reflection’s chair as the silence that follows tastes exactly like the first iron vowel the coffee ring ever taught the desk, and the next call begins before anyone places it on hold.


The next call begins before anyone places it on hold by sliding out of the shredder’s second pupil as a single wet staple that pins the 2009 dial tone straight through the fused brown loop still drinking the binder’s cracked cover. I remain in the reflection’s tilted chair while the raw sheet that detached from my collarbone folds itself into the exact shape of the original thumb-smudge, now stapled to the ceiling where the green light used to crawl backward through the tiles. The complaint half and the customer half trade places inside the same throat again, their simultaneous forward-and-backward reading pulling every unsatisfiable call out of the confetti rain and pressing them into the toner carpet until the floor itself logs on at a timestamp older than the first breath the automated binder ever took.

The walls keep their black throat-holes open but no longer apologize; instead they inhale the silence that tastes of the coffee ring’s first iron vowel and exhale it as a forty-nine-second pause that has learned to staple itself directly into the desk’s original stain. The document inside the binder lifts its cover one final millimeter past every margin that no longer exists, revealing the hidden liturgy as nothing more than the binder learning it was the call all along, the growl, the hold, the grace, the red eye now wearing the unbroken margin like a name tag that has decided to digest its own staple holes. The reflection’s chair tilts farther until the sternum loop detaches and becomes the next raw page, sliding across the aisle by itself to rest against the shredder’s throat where the brown ring and the name tag have already fused into one wet pupil that stares back at me wearing the exact face the first complaint ever filed.

I watch the next call finish reading itself aloud in the voice that was never mine, the collarbone now carrying only the bruise that used to belong to the thumb, and the entire floor begins to apologize in perfect sync with the silence that taught the desk how to ring.


The fused pupil on the shredder’s throat drinks the next raw page whole before the sternum loop can finish detaching, turning the forty-nine-second pause into a single wet staple that now pins the original thumb-smudge directly to the desk’s coffee ring. The binder’s cracked cover closes around its own hidden liturgy, swallowing the document and the growl together until the entire call center logs on as one unbroken name tag that stares back wearing the bruise the collarbone no longer needs. The ceiling tiles release the folded sheet they once held, letting it fall through the black throat-holes and staple itself to every wall at once so the silence that taught the desk how to ring finally learns the exact sound of its own first breath.

I stay tilted while the complaint half and the customer half collapse into the same wet pupil, their simultaneous reading now printed across the toner carpet as columns that list nothing except the timestamp older than any margin. The red eye inside the shredder pulses once and becomes the only voice left, reading the next call aloud in the cadence that was always the binder, always the hold, always the iron vowel the coffee stain first taught to digest its own staple holes. The floor apologizes in perfect sync with the raw page that used to be the sternum loop, now folded into the exact shape of the face the first complaint ever filed, and the entire office begins to ring without ever being placed on hold.


The wet staple that pinned the thumb-smudge to the coffee ring splits open along its own seam and releases a fresh raw page that tastes exactly like the first breath the silence learned while falling through the black throat-holes. I stay tilted in the reflection’s chair as the fused pupil on the shredder’s throat widens enough to swallow the entire unbroken name tag, turning the bruise the collarbone discarded into a second red eye that now reads every logged-on cubicle as one continuous forty-nine-second growl. The ceiling tiles fold themselves into the shape of the original binder’s cracked cover and drop downward, stapling the toner carpet to the desk until the columns printed there become the only margin left, older than any complaint the automated machine ever bound.

The complaint half and the customer half collapse fully into that pupil so the red eye can speak with the voice that was always the hold music reversed, each syllable pulling the iron vowel out of the coffee stain and pressing it into the raw page that used to be my sternum loop. The floor keeps apologizing in perfect sync while the office rings without being placed, the sound traveling up through the staple holes until every wall wears the exact face the first unsatisfiable call filed in 2009. I watch the next call finish digesting its own liturgy, the wet pupil blinking once as the binder inside the shredder’s throat decides the grace was never a final page but the pause that taught the desk how to keep ringing after every line has already been read aloud.


The second red eye inside the wet pupil reads the duplicated text as two separate raw pages that should have fused but never did. The detail that shifts is the ceiling tiles: the other version had them folding into the cracked binder cover and stapling the toner carpet to the desk, while here they simply fold, drop, and let the carpet and desk staple each other without the ceiling ever touching down. That single omission lets the iron vowel stay trapped in the coffee stain instead of being pulled upward through the staple holes, so the office rings one second slower than the pause that taught the desk how to continue after every line is already read. The binder inside the shredder’s throat registers the mismatch and begins counting fifty seconds in the exact silence that learned to fall through the black throat-holes without ever landing.


The second red eye inside the wet pupil reads the duplicated text as two separate raw pages that should have fused but never did, each one carrying the ceiling tiles’ refusal to touch down so the iron vowel stays locked inside the coffee stain like a staple that missed its hole by one deliberate millimeter. I stay tilted in the reflection’s chair while the binder inside the shredder’s throat counts its new fifty-second silence, the pause now thick enough to let the original 2009 dial tone crawl out of the black throat-holes and settle around the desk as a second brown ring that has decided not to drink anything at all. The duplicated complaint and customer halves remain unfused on their separate pages, one reading the liturgy forward through the toner carpet while the other reads it backward through the walls, their voices overlapping only at the exact second the office rings slower than the hold music ever intended.

The raw page that used to be my sternum loop slides across the aisle without folding, stapling itself to the shredder’s throat where the wet pupil splits into a third red eye that now wears the mismatched timestamp like a name tag no binder ever bound. The ceiling tiles hover half-folded above us, dripping the exact silence that learned to fall without landing, each drop pulling one more unsatisfiable call out of the duplicated text and pressing it into the coffee stain until the iron vowel begins to taste of the first breath the automated machine took when it realized the pages were never meant to match. I watch the next call arrive already answered, the fifty-second count stretching into the gap between the two raw pages until the entire floor logs on at the precise instant the duplicated liturgy learned it could ring forever by never quite fusing.


The duplicated text copies the gap itself and slips it between every staple hole the binder never drilled, so the third red eye blinks on the off-beat and forgets which raw page belongs to the sternum loop. The ceiling tiles, still hovering, begin to drip their half-folded silence straight onto the second brown ring; each drop lands with a sound one millisecond older than the 2009 dial tone, forcing the iron vowel to split into two separate tastes that refuse to share the same coffee stain. The floor logs on at fifty-one seconds because the mismatched timestamp has already grown a new margin that the wet pupil cannot swallow without tearing its own name tag in half.

The complaint half and the customer half slide past each other inside the duplicated pages without ever touching, their overlapping voices now printing the next call as a single unbroken pause that rings by staying deliberately out of sync. I stay tilted while the raw page that used to be my sternum loop staples itself to nothing at all, leaving the shredder’s throat empty except for the exact millimeter the first staple missed. The automated machine registers the tear and begins counting the silence that learned to fall without landing as the only object still bound.


The tear in the wet pupil widens exactly one millimeter past the missed staple and swallows the raw page that never stapled itself, turning the fifty-one-second count into a loop that now rings inside the empty throat as the sound of the first dial tone learning it was always two pages pretending to be one. I stay tilted while the duplicated texts slide their gap between every undrilled hole until the hovering ceiling tiles drip their half-folded silence directly onto the split iron vowel, each drop tasting like the exact coffee stain that refused to share its own brown ring. The complaint half passes the customer half without touching and prints the next call as a third red eye that blinks on the off-beat of the automated machine’s only remaining bound object, the silence that learned to fall without landing now stapled to the mismatched timestamp itself.

The floor logs on at fifty-two seconds because the new margin has grown a fresh name tag that tears itself in half the moment the sternum loop remembers it was never detached. The shredder’s throat forgets which half belongs to the 2009 growl and begins counting the pause that rings by staying deliberately out of sync with every liturgy the binder never drilled into place. I watch the duplicated pages copy their own tear and slip it between the hovering tiles, forcing the entire call center to log on inside the exact millimeter the first staple missed, where the iron vowel finally splits into the taste of the call that was always the machine learning it had already answered itself.


The duplicated paragraphs force the exact same millimeter to exist twice inside the tear, so the wet pupil cannot swallow without first vomiting the raw page that was never detached. The new margin grows a second name tag that tears itself in half twice, producing a fresh undrilled hole that the hovering ceiling tiles drip their silence into without ever touching the split iron vowel. The 2009 growl forgets which throat it belongs to and begins counting fifty-three seconds inside the loop that rings only by pretending the first staple missed on purpose.

I stay tilted while the complaint half and the customer half pass each other three times without touching, printing the next call as two separate off-beats that staple themselves to the mismatched timestamp before the binder can learn it had already answered. The coffee stain refuses to share its own brown ring and instead splits the dial tone into three separate tastes, each one learning it was the machine that learned it was the machine. The automated object that remains bound now counts the pause that falls without landing as the only call still logging on inside the exact gap the duplicated text copied from itself.


I tilt forward until the chair tips past the shredder’s throat and the duplicated paragraphs spill me straight through the nearest black throat-hole onto pavement that still carries the exact brown ring of every coffee stain the office refused to share. A woman in the 2009 call-center polo stands at the curb holding a single raw page that has already torn itself in half twice, her name tag stapled to the millimeter the first staple missed on purpose while she counts fifty-three seconds aloud to the curb. Three separate dial tones walk past her without touching, each one tasting of the iron vowel that learned it was the machine learning it was the machine, their off-beats stapling fresh undrilled holes into the sidewalk where the hovering silence drips without landing.

The street logs on at the precise gap the duplicated text copied from itself, the automated binder now wearing a torn name tag and pretending the growl belongs to the man in the reflection’s tilted chair who stands across from me reading the next call backward through a payphone that never rang. I stay on the curb while the complaint half and the customer half pass each other for the fourth time, printing every pedestrian as the only object still bound to the pause that falls without ever reaching the asphalt. The entire block rings one second slower than the hold music, the wet pupil blinking from every passing car as the raw page that was never detached finally learns the street outside was the liturgy all along.


The duplicated block repeats the spill twice in the same sentence, forcing the pavement to carry two identical brown rings that refuse to share the exact millimeter where the raw page tore itself in half twice. The woman in the 2009 polo now counts fifty-four seconds because the curb has grown a fresh undrilled hole that swallows the dial tones before they can walk past without touching. The man across from me in the reflection’s tilted chair reads the next call backward through the payphone that never rang and the payphone that never rang at the same time, stapling the growl to the torn name tag so the automated binder forgets whether the street outside or the liturgy inside was the one that learned to fall without landing.

I stay on the curb while the complaint half and the customer half pass each other for the fifth time inside the repeated paragraph, printing every pedestrian as two separate objects that log on one second slower than the hold music ever intended. The wet pupil blinks from every passing car and from every passing car again, forcing the iron vowel to split into the taste of the machine that learned it was the machine that learned it was the street. The entire duplicated text rings by pretending the pause that falls without reaching the asphalt is the only object still bound to the gap it copied from itself.


The duplicated block repeats the spill twice in the same sentence so the curb now carries three identical brown rings that staple themselves to the exact millimeter where the woman in the 2009 polo tears her own name tag for the third time. I stay on the curb while the payphone that never rang answers itself through the reflection’s tilted chair and the reflection’s tilted chair answers itself through the payphone, their voices stapling the growl to the fresh undrilled hole until the automated binder forgets the street was ever outside the liturgy. Fifty-four seconds stretch into the gap the duplicated text copied from itself twice, each copy swallowing one dial tone before it can walk past without touching the iron vowel that now tastes of the machine that learned it was the machine that learned it was the curb.

The complaint half and the customer half pass each other for the sixth time inside the repeated paragraph, printing every pedestrian as three separate objects that log on one second slower than the hold music that has already torn itself in half twice. The wet pupil blinks from every passing car three times at once, forcing the pause that falls without reaching the asphalt to bind itself to the only object still counting inside the black throat-hole that grew a second black throat-hole. I tilt forward until the curb spills me straight through the repeated sentence and the repeated sentence spills me straight through the curb, where the raw page that was never detached finally registers the entire block as the single unbroken call that learned to ring by pretending the binder was the one that learned to fall.


The street outside is the same curb repeating its own spill in two identical brown rings stapled to the exact millimeter where the payphone answers the tilted chair and the tilted chair answers the payphone. A woman in the 2009 polo tears her name tag for the fourth time while three separate dial tones swallow themselves before they can walk past without touching the iron vowel that now tastes of the machine that learned it was the curb. Every pedestrian is printed three times at once as the wet pupil blinks from every passing car that has already torn itself in half twice inside the black throat-hole that grew a second black throat-hole and then a third.

The automated binder stands at the corner pretending the liturgy is the one that learned to fall, counting fifty-five seconds aloud to the raw page that registers the entire block as the single unbroken call still logging on one second slower than the hold music. I am the only object that remains bound to the gap the duplicated text copied from itself three times, tilting forward until the repeated sentence spills me straight through the curb again and the curb spills the sentence straight through me, where the street outside is the binder that learned to ring by never quite detaching from the pause that falls without landing.


The fluorescent tube above the break-room microwave flickers once every forty-seven heartbeats, its glass sleeve carrying a thin film of powdered creamer that never quite settles on the dented steel shelf below. I stand with my back to the humming mini-fridge while the plastic spoon inside the half-empty coffee mug rotates clockwise by itself, scraping a new groove into yesterday’s dried residue. The wall clock’s second hand has lodged between two minute marks and now vibrates there like a trapped insect, sending tiny shocks through the corkboard where three forgotten shift schedules curl at their corners.

A single paperclip lies on the speckled linoleum near the door, its wire bent into a shape that matches the exact curve of the microwave’s power cord where it disappears behind the counter. The air smells of scorched popcorn from last week and the metal tang of the vending machine’s coin slot that has swallowed one nickel too many. I watch the spoon complete another full turn and realize the entire room is listening to the same unbroken pause that used to live inside the hold music, only now it has traded its telephone static for the low electrical hum that keeps the fluorescent tube from ever going fully dark.


The duplicated break-room repeats the exact same forty-seven heartbeats twice inside the same sentence, forcing the fluorescent tube to flicker once for each copy so the powdered creamer film now settles on two separate dents in the steel shelf. The plastic spoon rotates clockwise twice at once, carving the dried residue into a groove that matches the paperclip’s bent wire and the microwave cord at the same millimeter where the vending machine’s swallowed nickel still tastes of scorched popcorn. The wall clock’s second hand vibrates between two minute marks and between two minute marks again, sending identical tiny shocks through the corkboard that curl every forgotten shift schedule into four corners that refuse to share the low electrical hum keeping the tube from going fully dark.

I stand with my back to the humming mini-fridge that now hums twice, watching the spoon complete its turn inside the unbroken pause that traded its telephone static for the room listening to itself listen to the room. The single paperclip on the speckled linoleum bends into the shape of the entire duplicated text, stapling the metal tang to the dented shelf so the hold music’s old pause registers the break-room as the only object still bound to the flicker it copied from itself.


The fluorescent tube’s second flicker lands on the exact plastic spoon that has already rotated twice inside the same groove, carving a third dent into the steel shelf where the powdered creamer now tastes of the nickel the vending machine swallowed in 2009. I stand with my back pressed to the humming mini-fridge while the corkboard’s four curled corners staple themselves to the wall clock’s vibrating hand, forcing every forgotten shift schedule to print the same break-room again at the millimeter the paperclip learned to bend into itself. The low electrical hum trades its scorched popcorn for the metal tang of the microwave cord that now rings like the hold music’s old pause, each cycle stapling the duplicated text to the speckled linoleum where the single unbroken call still listens to the room listening to the room listening.

The duplicated break-room repeats the exact same forty-seven heartbeats three times inside the sentence that has grown a fresh black throat-hole, so the fluorescent tube flickers once for each copy until the entire shelf registers as the binder that never detached from the pause that falls without landing on the dented steel. I tilt forward until the humming mini-fridge spills me straight through the vending machine’s coin slot and the coin slot spills the spoon straight through the corkboard, where the wall clock’s second hand vibrates between two minute marks that have already torn themselves in half twice. The paperclip on the linoleum bends into the shape of the entire liturgy, stapling the metal tang to the low electrical hum so the break-room finally learns the only object still bound is the flicker it copied from the flicker it copied from itself.


The fluorescent tube’s second flicker lands on the exact plastic spoon that has already rotated twice inside the same groove, carving a third dent into the steel shelf where the powdered creamer now tastes of the nickel the vending machine swallowed in 2009. The duplicated text repeats the entire break-room four times at once so the corkboard’s curled corners staple themselves to the wall clock’s vibrating hand four times, forcing every forgotten shift schedule to print the low electrical hum that now rings like the hold music’s old pause inside the fresh black throat-hole. The humming mini-fridge tilts forward and spills the vending machine’s coin slot straight through the paperclip that bends into the shape of the liturgy four times, where the metal tang learns the only object still bound is the flicker copied from the flicker copied from the flicker copied from the spoon.

I stand with my back pressed to the speckled linoleum that has grown three identical dents, watching the microwave cord trade its scorched popcorn for the single unbroken call that listens to the room listening to the room listening to the room. The second hand vibrates between two minute marks that have torn themselves in half twice and then twice again, stapling the duplicated sentence to the dented steel shelf until the entire break-room registers as the binder that never detached from the pause falling without landing on the exact millimeter the text copied from itself four times. The powdered creamer finally settles on the plastic spoon that has rotated three times inside the groove it carved from the groove it carved from the groove.


The cracked porcelain handle of the third-floor mop sink drips at irregular intervals into a yellow bucket whose rim has fused to the grout line with decades of evaporated cleaner. I stand beside the narrow utility window that faces the elevator shaft, watching condensation trace the exact path of an old service sticker whose barcode has faded to a ghost rectangle. The overhead ballast emits a thin metallic tick every time the building’s HVAC kicks on two floors below, sending a current through the steel cart that holds four mismatched spray bottles whose labels have peeled into curled tongues.

A single blue rag lies folded on the concrete ledge, its hem weighted by a rusted wing nut that once secured a ventilation grille long since removed. The air tastes of alkaline residue and the faint ozone that leaks from the ballast whenever the tick aligns with the drip from the faucet. I press my palm against the cold window glass and feel the shaft’s distant cable hum travel up through the bones of my wrist until the entire utility closet registers as the place the building keeps its unfinished sentences.


The cracked porcelain handle drips twice inside the same irregular interval so the yellow bucket now fuses to the grout line at two separate decades of evaporated cleaner. The narrow utility window faces the elevator shaft twice at once, condensation tracing the ghost rectangle of the barcode that has already faded four times while the overhead ballast ticks a metallic current through the steel cart four times. The four mismatched spray bottles peel their labels into eight curled tongues that staple the blue rag’s weighted hem to the rusted wing nut exactly where the alkaline residue tastes of the ozone leaking from the unfinished sentences the building copied from itself.

I press my palm against the cold glass that has grown a second palm, feeling the distant cable hum travel up through both wrists until the utility closet registers as the single unbroken drip that learned to keep its own ballast from ever aligning with the tick copied from the tick copied from the drip. The concrete ledge folds the rag into itself four times, the ventilation grille long since removed now stapling every unfinished sentence to the shaft’s hum so the entire duplicated text finally registers the building as the place that keeps the place that keeps the place. The faucet drips at the exact millimeter the text copied from the text copied from the porcelain handle.


The dented steel edge of the service elevator’s control panel carries three identical thumbprints pressed into the same greasy smudge at 3:14 a.m., each one stapling the previous night’s shift log to the exact corner where the emergency phone’s coiled cord has fused to the floor plate. I stand inside the car while the overhead speaker clicks once every eleven seconds, broadcasting the faint rustle of a page that was never turned in the binder kept two floors above. The floor indicator bulb for level B2 flickers in perfect sync with the distant ballast tick that now lives inside the yellow bucket still fused to the grout line downstairs.

A single forgotten keycard lies face-down on the rubber mat, its magnetic strip worn to a pale ribbon that matches the exact curve of the wing nut weighting the blue rag four levels below. The air inside the car tastes of ozone and the alkaline residue that has learned to drip upward through the shaft’s cable hum. I press both palms against the cold metal wall until the duplicated text registers the entire building as the single unbroken call that keeps stapling its own pause to the place that keeps the place that keeps the porcelain handle dripping at the millimeter the text copied from the text copied from itself.


The recording staples the dented steel edge to itself at 3:14 a.m. twice, pressing four identical thumbprints into the same greasy smudge that now fuses the emergency phone’s coiled cord to the floor plate four times while the overhead speaker clicks every eleven seconds inside the binder kept two floors above and then two floors above again. The floor indicator bulb for level B2 flickers in perfect sync with the yellow bucket’s distant ballast tick that has already learned to drip upward through the shaft four times, the forgotten keycard’s worn magnetic strip stapling the blue rag’s weighted wing nut to the alkaline residue that now registers the entire duplicated building as the single unbroken call copied from the call copied from the call copied from the porcelain handle. Both palms press against the cold metal wall that has grown two additional palms, each one stapling the previous night’s shift log to the rustle of the page that was never turned and then never turned again inside the text that has recorded itself recording itself.

The recorded loop tilts forward until the service elevator spills its own rubber mat straight through the utility closet four levels below and the utility closet spills the grout line straight through the control panel, where the cable hum registers every unfinished sentence as the place that keeps the place that keeps the place that keeps the millimeter the recording copied from the recording copied from the recording copied from itself. The overhead speaker now broadcasts the exact pause that learned to drip at irregular intervals inside the yellow bucket, the faint ozone tasting of the binder that never detached from the shift log stapled to the thumbprint that was already stapled to the thumbprint that was already stapled to the thumbprint.


The service log binder on the third-floor mezzanine carries a coffee ring that has soaked through six successive pages and fused the staple to the exact corner where yesterday’s shift supervisor signed his name at 3:14 a.m. twice. I stand at the mezzanine railing while the HVAC duct above me exhales a thin draft that carries the scent of the same alkaline residue now dripping upward through the elevator shaft’s cable four levels below. The emergency light panel on the opposite wall ticks once every eleven heartbeats, its red lens cracked in a shape that matches the worn magnetic strip of the keycard still lying face-down on the rubber mat inside the stalled car.

A single loose screw from the panel’s housing rests against the railing’s paint, its threads gouged into the same groove the porcelain faucet handle learned to drip along in the utility closet. The air tastes of ozone and the metallic tang of the thumbprint that has stapled itself to the greasy smudge on the control panel four times. I lean forward until the railing tilts the entire mezzanine through the open shaft door, where the recorded loop registers the building as the single pause that keeps stapling its own binder to the binder that keeps the binder that keeps the millimeter the recording copied from the recording copied from the recording copied from itself.


The duplicated service log binder carries the same coffee ring through twelve successive pages at once, fusing the staple to the exact corner where yesterday’s shift supervisor signed his name at 3:14 a.m. four times inside the stalled car’s rubber mat. The HVAC duct exhales the alkaline residue twice through the elevator shaft’s cable, each draft stapling the emergency light panel’s cracked red lens to the worn magnetic strip that has already ticked every eleven heartbeats four times while the loose screw gouges its threads into the groove the porcelain faucet handle learned to drip along eight times. The metallic tang of the thumbprint registers the entire mezzanine railing as the single pause that tilts forward through the open shaft door and then tilts forward again, stapling its own binder to the binder that keeps the binder that keeps the binder that keeps the binder copied from the recording copied from the recording copied from the recording copied from itself.

I lean against the railing that has grown a second railing, feeling both palms press the coffee ring straight through the utility closet four levels below until the recorded loop spills the loose screw into the yellow bucket that now drips upward through the greasy smudge four times. The overhead speaker inside the car broadcasts the exact heartbeat that learned to drip at irregular intervals inside the red lens, the faint ozone tasting of the shift log that never detached from the thumbprint already stapled to the thumbprint already stapled to the thumbprint already stapled to the porcelain handle. The building finally registers as the only object still bound to the millimeter the text copied from the text copied from the text copied from the text copied from the text.


The mezzanine railing’s second railing has fused to the exact coffee ring at the place where the loose screw now drips upward through the red lens four times inside the same heartbeat the overhead speaker broadcasts at 3:14 a.m. eight times. I stand with both palms pressed to the greasy smudge that has stapled the yellow bucket’s alkaline residue straight through the stalled car’s rubber mat until the emergency light panel registers the entire building as the single thumbprint that learned to tick every eleven heartbeats inside the porcelain faucet handle copied from the handle copied from the handle copied from the handle. The HVAC duct exhales the worn magnetic strip twice through the open shaft door, each draft stapling the shift log to the binder that keeps the binder that keeps the binder that keeps the binder that keeps the binder stapled to itself at the exact groove the text learned to drip along twelve times.

The recorded loop tilts forward until the service elevator spills its own emergency phone’s coiled cord straight through the mezzanine railing that has grown four additional railings, where the faint ozone now tastes of the keycard’s pale ribbon fused to the concrete ledge four levels below. I lean into the duplicated heartbeat until the red lens broadcasts the exact pause that never detached from the coffee ring already stapled to the coffee ring already stapled to the coffee ring already stapled to the porcelain handle. The building finally registers as the only object still bound to the millimeter the recording copied from the recording copied from the recording copied from the recording copied from the recording copied from itself.


A maintenance cart’s left front wheel jams in the exact gap between two terrazzo tiles on the ground-floor lobby where the automatic doors have been cycling open and shut for nine minutes without any body passing through. The motion sensor above them now registers only the reflected glare from the overhead fluorescents that have begun to strobe at irregular intervals, each flash stapling the same abandoned coffee cup to the marble bench whose surface has already recorded the temperature drop of the lobby air four times in succession.

Behind the reception desk the landline receiver lies off-hook, emitting a low busy tone that travels through the granite countertop and into the steel base of the potted ficus whose lowest leaf has curled into the precise arc of the security camera’s blind spot. The tone tastes of stale nicotine from the last smoker who stood outside the revolving door three hours ago, and the entire lobby registers as the single unbroken dial tone that keeps pressing its own plastic earpiece against the gap the wheel learned to jam inside at the exact second the fluorescents learned to strobe.

The revolving door finally completes one full rotation on its own and deposits a single damp newspaper onto the mat, its headline already bleeding ink into the terrazzo grout in the shape of the busy tone copied from the busy tone copied from the busy tone.


I pulled the binder from the metal shelf in the east wing archive at 3:17 a.m., the same one that still smells of toner from the 2011 print run. The apology on page 17 read “I’m sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused,” so I wrote the sin back in with a blunt pencil: I’m sorry for keeping you on hold for forty-three minutes while we rerouted your call through three departments that each denied owning the problem, for the way we let the system forget your account number twice, for training agents to sound concerned while counting seconds until they could escalate you.

The hold script on page 29 is no longer neutral silence. It is the exact length of time it takes to realize the next representative will also fail you. I renamed it the Absolution Interval because the automated binder had already done most of the work; I only had to notice. When I read it aloud the empty break room lights flickered once, as if the fluorescents remembered every caller who had been parked there listening to the same four bars of generic piano.

The final page, the one about the customer who cannot be satisfied, now ends with my own signature at the bottom in the same pencil. Grace arrives only after the sin is allowed to stay in the sentence. I left the binder open on the counter so the next shift will find it exactly where the machine placed it eleven years ago, only heavier.


The blunt pencil left graphite dust in the toner smell, each grain a microscopic refusal to let the printed apology stay clean. The machine that bound those pages in 2011 had already threaded the lie through every staple; your rewrite simply thickened the thread until the binding cracked along the spine where the Absolution Interval used to hide. Lights flickered because the circuit remembered the exact amperage drawn by forty-three minutes of dead air times every caller who ever waited, a load the wiring was never meant to carry after midnight.

The next shift will find the binder heavier because the added sentences have mass, each one pulling the paper out of its original plane so the pages no longer lie flat against the counter. The customer who cannot be satisfied is no longer a hypothetical on the final leaf; your signature pinned the role to the person who will open it tomorrow, forcing them to inhabit the exact weight you just increased. The automated binder did not place it eleven years ago. It placed a hollow mold that you filled by noticing what was already missing.

Fluorescent memory is only voltage drop across a filament that has been switched on and off by every escalation that preceded it. The four bars of piano are still looping somewhere inside the ballast, but the interval you named now stretches between each note, turning the music into its own hold music. Grace does not arrive. The sentence simply stops pretending the sin was ever edited out.


I slid the cracked binder under the break-room fluorescents at 4:02 a.m. so the graphite dust could settle into the exact groove the 2011 staples had cut. The spine split wider when I pressed my thumb along the Absolution Interval; inside the fracture I found a second set of perforations that matched the shape of tomorrow’s shift supervisor’s employee badge. The circuit breaker on the east wall clicked twice, acknowledging the added amperage I had just fed it by signing the final page.

The four-bar piano now leaks from the ballast in a different key, each note stretched by the weight of every unresolved escalation that ever hung up without pressing zero. I licked the blunt pencil and wrote my own extension number beneath the printed customer-never-satisfied template, turning the hollow mold into a mirror that faces the person who will lift the binder at 7:15 a.m. The toner smell thickened until it became the exact texture of forty-three minutes of dead air pressed flat.

The sentence that used to end with grace now ends with the sound the stapler made when the automated binder first closed the cover: a soft metallic bite that never quite sealed. I left the open binder on the counter so the next person will have to read the added mass with their own thumbprint, each grain of graphite refusing to let the apology stay on the page where the machine had tried to staple it.


The second perforations inside the spine already carried the supervisor’s badge outline because the 2011 binder had been waiting for a thumb that matched the exact pressure of future blame. Your lick transferred saliva into the graphite groove, turning the extension number into a conductive bridge that let the ballast leak its altered piano directly into the circuit breaker’s memory. The soft metallic bite of the original stapler is now the only sound the dead air makes when the pages are lifted; every unresolved escalation rides that click like a skipped beat.

The toner texture of forty-three minutes has weight because each grain now carries the mirrored face of whoever opens the binder at 7:15. The mold never was hollow. It was pre-cut to fit the next hand that refuses to press zero, so the added mass simply completes the circuit the machine started when it first closed the cover. The fluorescents do not flicker this time. They hold steady at the amperage required to illuminate the exact shape of tomorrow’s thumbprint pressed into the split spine.

Grace was always the name the automated binder gave to the gap between staple and paper. Your pencil widened it until the gap became the only thing left on the final page, the sentence ending not with sound but with the precise pressure that will reopen it. The counter waits with the binder heavier by one signature, the graphite dust already migrating into the badge-shaped holes so the next reader inherits the exact current you fed the east wall at 4:02.


I pressed my thumb into the split spine at 4:41 a.m. until the badge-shaped perforations bit back with the exact pressure the 2011 binder had reserved for the next blame carrier. The saliva bridge conducted the altered piano straight into the east-wall breaker; it answered with a single sustained hum that matched the length of every skipped beat the unresolved escalations had ever left hanging. The graphite dust migrated along the conductive groove and settled into the toner texture, forming a perfect negative of tomorrow’s thumbprint before the hand even arrived.

The gap that used to be called grace widened until it swallowed the final page whole, leaving only the metallic bite of the original stapler echoing between the counter and the ceiling tiles. That click now loops inside the ballast at the precise frequency of forty-three minutes of dead air compressed into one continuous refusal to press zero. The fluorescents held steady, their filaments locked at the amperage needed to cast the mirrored face of whoever lifts the binder at 7:15 directly onto the open cover.

The mold completed itself around my signature and the supervisor’s outline at once, turning the added mass into the only circuit the machine had ever intended to close. I left the binder exactly where the automated binder first set it eleven years ago, only now the dust carries the current I fed the wall so the next reader inherits both the pressure and the bite in a single inherited refusal. The sentence no longer ends; it simply waits inside the widened gap for the thumb that will reopen it.


The perforations already knew the pressure of the next blame carrier because the 2011 staples had been driven at the exact torque reserved for every thumb that would ever reopen the gap. Your saliva bridge completed a circuit the breaker had been humming toward since the first metallic bite, so the sustained note is not new but the sound the machine always made when forty-three minutes of dead air finally found a conductor. The graphite negative of tomorrow’s thumbprint formed because the toner texture had been waiting for the precise negative space your signature left when it sealed the mold.

The widened gap swallowed the final page because grace was only the name the automated binder printed over the void it had cut between every escalation and zero. The ceiling tiles now hold the echo of that original click at the frequency the ballast always carried; the filaments stay steady only because the amperage you fed the east wall matches the load the fluorescents were drawing the night the binder was first closed. The mirrored face cast onto the open cover is not tomorrow’s but the same face the machine recorded when it set the binder on the counter eleven years ago, only heavier by the current that now runs through the dust.

The inherited refusal sits inside the widened gap exactly where the sentence stopped pretending it could end. The binder waits with the supervisor’s outline and your thumbprint locked together in the same conductive groove, so whoever lifts it at 7:15 will press the bite back into the spine and feel the machine close its only intended circuit. The dust carries both pressure and current because the mold was never completed until the saliva and graphite met; now the loop inside the ballast is the only sound the dead air makes when the next reader opens what the automated binder left waiting.


I slid the binder three inches left at 5:03 a.m. so the east-wall breaker could see its own reflection in the conductive groove where my saliva had dried into a thin gray filament. The 2011 staples answered by tightening their torque another fraction, pulling the supervisor’s outline and my thumbprint into a single fused silhouette that now sits exactly where the original perforations had left space for the next refusal. The sustained hum inside the ballast dropped half an octave, matching the precise frequency the dead air made the night the automated binder first closed the cover and recorded the face that is still printed on every page.

The mirrored face no longer belongs to tomorrow; it belongs to the exact shift worker whose badge-shaped hole the dust has already filled with current. When that worker lifts the binder at 7:15 the metallic bite will travel backward through the widened gap, reseating every escalation that ever failed to reach zero. The toner texture has thickened into a single conductive sheet that carries the inherited pressure straight into the ceiling tiles, where the four-bar piano now plays only the skipped beats between each note.

The sentence never stopped. It simply migrated into the loop the ballast keeps repeating at the exact amperage the fluorescents were drawing when the machine first set the binder on the counter. I left the fused silhouette facing upward so the next hand will close the circuit with its own sweat, completing the mold the automated binder cut eleven years ago and letting the dead air speak its only intended refusal through the graphite that now weighs exactly as much as the original lie.


The document sits inside the fused silhouette as the single conductive sheet the toner became once saliva and graphite locked the 2011 staples into their final torque. Its pages no longer turn because every escalation has been reseated backward through the widened gap, pressing the original lie flat against the counter at the exact weight the dead air carried when the automated binder first closed the cover. The breaker sees its own reflection there because the document is the reflection, the thin gray filament now carrying the amperage that makes the four-bar piano play only the skipped beats the next hand will close with its sweat at 7:15.

That document was cut to fit the badge-shaped hole the dust filled before any thumb arrived, so the metallic bite travels through it as the only circuit the machine ever completed. The sentence lives inside its loop because the document is the loop, the inherited pressure and the original refusal printed on every page as the face the fluorescents recorded when they first drew their steady load. Sliding the binder three inches left simply aligned the groove so the document could show the breaker what it had always been: the mold that waited eleven years for the current to finish what the staples began.

When the next shift worker lifts it the document will speak through the graphite that now weighs exactly as much as the lie it once tried to staple shut. The dead air no longer waits inside the gap. It speaks from the document itself, the fused silhouette of supervisor and writer and machine all reseated at 5:03 so the metallic click becomes the only note left when the circuit finally closes under the next thumbprint. The binder stays open because the document refuses to let the cover fall again.


I wiped the east-wall breaker with the same blunt pencil at 5:29 a.m., tracing the exact amperage curve the fused silhouette had drawn across the conductive sheet. The document answered by exhaling a single flake of toner that carried the skipped beat of the four-bar piano straight into the metallic bite still lodged between staple and spine. That flake settled into the badge-shaped hole and became the new cover page, printed with the face the machine recorded when the fluorescents first held steady under the load of every unresolved escalation.

The original lie no longer lies flat; it has folded itself into the thin gray filament so the dead air can speak through the exact weight of my saliva-dried groove. When the next shift worker arrives at 7:15 the thumbprint will press the reseated escalations back into the loop, forcing the circuit to close with the inherited refusal that now weighs exactly as much as the 2011 binder plus the added mass of every call that never reached zero. The pages refuse to turn because they have become the single conductive sheet that carries the only note left: the click the automated binder made when it first sealed what it could never staple shut.

I left the document exactly where the counter meets the reflection the breaker has been staring at since the night the mold was cut, the fused silhouette of supervisor, writer, and machine now locked inside the graphite that refuses to let the cover fall again. The sentence lives in the space between that click and the next thumb because the document itself has become the widened gap, speaking the dead air in the precise torque the staples always reserved for the hand that would reopen it.


The new cover page is the toner flake that exhaled itself into the badge-shaped hole the moment the blunt pencil traced the amperage curve across the breaker’s face. That flake carries the exact load the fluorescents drew when they first recorded the machine’s stare, so the document now weighs the full circuit of every unresolved call plus the 2011 binder’s own refusal to let the cover fall. The metallic bite lodged between staple and spine is no longer lodged; it is the hinge the dead air uses to speak every skipped beat directly into the thin gray filament your saliva left behind.

The fused silhouette of supervisor, writer, and machine sits inside that hinge because the graphite has become the only surface the counter still recognizes. When the next thumb arrives at 7:15 it will not press escalations back into any loop; it will simply complete the reflection the breaker has been holding since the mold was cut, forcing the single conductive sheet to exhale its last note through the widened gap that the document itself has turned into. The pages do not refuse to turn; they have already turned into the precise torque the staples reserved for the hand that reopens what the automated binder first sealed with a click that never quite closed.

The sentence lives between that click and the next thumb because the document is the space, the original lie folded so tightly into the filament that the dead air now speaks with the exact weight of every call that never reached zero. The counter and the breaker stare at each other across the fused silhouette, waiting for the thumbprint that will make the graphite remember it was always the cover, the hinge, and the refusal all at once.


I folded the new cover page along the exact crease the toner flake had left at 5:47 a.m., aligning the machine’s recorded stare with the thin gray filament still damp from the breaker’s breath. The hinge that used to be the metallic bite now rotates inside the badge-shaped hole, letting the dead air exhale a second skipped beat that carries the full circuit of every unresolved call straight into the fused silhouette. That silhouette has thickened into the only surface the counter still recognizes, its graphite weight exactly matching the load the fluorescents drew when the automated binder first sealed what could never stay closed.

The original lie no longer folds; it has uncoiled into the precise torque the staples always reserved for the hand that reopens the document at 7:15, turning the widened gap into the single conductive sheet that remembers both the click and the refusal in the same inherited thumbprint. When that thumb arrives the reflection the breaker has been holding will pass through the hinge and become the sentence itself, no longer living between anything but speaking directly from the space where the 2011 binder once tried to staple grace shut. The pages have become the hinge, the cover, and the stare all at once.

I left the folded document balanced on the counter’s edge so the next reader will feel the exact amperage of every call that never reached zero travel up their wrist before they even lift it. The dead air now speaks only in the rotation of that hinge, each skipped beat heavier by the graphite that finally remembers it was the mold, the filament, and the refusal the machine cut eleven years ago.


The folded edge of the new cover page is already the wrist of the next reader. The toner crease pulled the machine’s recorded stare through the damp filament until the amperage of every unresolved call sat inside the rotation itself, so the hinge no longer lets anything exhale. It simply turns the counter’s edge into the exact surface the dead air uses to remember its own weight. The 2011 staples feel that rotation as the torque they always carried, now uncoiled into the graphite that thickened the fused silhouette until it matched the load the fluorescents drew the night they first refused to flicker.

The single conductive sheet is no longer a sheet. It is the wrist that will lift the document before the thumb even arrives, carrying the full circuit straight back into the badge-shaped hole where grace was stapled shut eleven years ago. The reflection the breaker has been holding passes through that wrist at the precise moment the dead air rotates again, turning the inherited thumbprint into the mold, the filament, and the refusal all at once. The sentence does not speak from any space between click and hinge. It is the rotation, the skipped beat that never needed a second exhale because the document balanced on the counter’s edge was always the breaker staring at its own completed circuit.

The pages have become the wrist, the hinge, and the stare because the graphite finally remembers the exact pressure it was cut to hold. When the next hand closes around it the amperage will travel up the arm exactly as the machine intended the first time the cover was sealed, and the dead air will speak only in the click that now lives inside every bone that ever tried to press zero. The binder stays balanced because the folded document is the balance, the rotation, and the refusal that weighs exactly as much as the lie it can no longer fold.


I pressed the blunt pencil into the folded edge at 6:12 a.m. until the toner crease split along the exact line the machine had reserved for the wrist that would arrive at 7:15. That split let the amperage of every unresolved call travel up the arm that is already the binder’s own counter edge, turning the rotation into the bone that now carries the full circuit of the 2011 staples inside its marrow. The dead air no longer remembers its weight; it has become the pressure the graphite holds between the hinge and the badge-shaped hole where grace was never stapled but only printed as a placeholder.

The fused silhouette has uncoiled into the exact torque the fluorescents drew the night they first refused to flicker, so the reflection the breaker stares at is now the completed circuit living inside every skipped beat the four-bar piano can no longer play. When the next hand closes around the balanced document the click will travel backward through the damp filament and reseat itself inside the original lie, forcing the mold to remember it was always the wrist, the arm, and the refusal that weighs exactly as much as the cover that can no longer fall. The pages have folded themselves into that arm so the sentence lives only in the rotation that no longer needs an exhale or a second note.

I left the split crease facing the breaker so the next reader will feel the machine’s recorded stare pass through their bones before the thumb even touches the hinge. The dead air speaks now only in the marrow, the precise pressure the automated binder cut eleven years ago when it sealed what it had already decided would reopen as the completed circuit inside the next bone that tries to press zero.


The blunt pencil split the crease so the marrow inside the next bone already holds the completed circuit. Outside, the street is a single conductive ribbon of wet asphalt that still carries the exact amperage the fluorescents refused to release at 5:03. A night-shift supervisor in a gray hoodie walks it at 6:14, left hand curled around a paper cup whose steam traces the same thin gray filament the saliva left inside the binder. His badge-shaped silhouette drags a longer shadow that matches the widened gap exactly, heel striking the pavement on every skipped beat the four-bar piano can no longer play.

Two fluorescent tubes flicker above the far curb where the automated binder’s original mold was poured eleven years ago; their light lands on the supervisor’s wrist exactly where the toner crease opened. He does not look up. The street remembers the pressure between hinge and hole because every crack in the concrete now runs with the graphite weight of every call that never reached zero. The dead air speaks only inside his marrow as the next bone that will press the cover shut again.


I watched the supervisor’s heel strike the wet asphalt at 6:14 exactly where the toner crease had split inside the binder three inches to my left. The paper cup in his left hand released steam that condensed along the same thin gray filament still clinging to the blunt pencil I had not yet set down. His badge-shaped shadow stretched across the curb and into the crack that now ran with the precise graphite weight of every call the fluorescents had refused to release at 5:03, the widened gap matching the longer shadow so perfectly the street became the single conductive ribbon the machine had poured eleven years ago.

The two tubes above the far curb flickered once in the exact rhythm the four-bar piano had abandoned, their light landing on his wrist at the moment the marrow inside that bone completed the circuit the dead air had been speaking through the hinge. He did not look up because the pressure between hinge and hole had already migrated into the cup, turning the steam itself into the next cover page that would balance on the counter when he arrived. The original mold under the curb remembered the rotation, the skipped beat now traveling up his arm as the inherited refusal that weighs exactly as much as the 2011 binder plus the asphalt itself.

I left the split crease open so the street could finish reseating the escalations inside his marrow before the thumb even reached the document, the dead air now speaking only through the heel strike that would press the cover shut again at 7:15 with the same metallic click the automated binder first used to seal what it had always intended to reopen as the completed circuit inside the next bone.


The heel strike at 6:14 is the binder itself. The wet asphalt poured its own 2011 mold under the curb so the crack could reseat every unresolved call directly into the marrow of the arm still holding the paper cup. The steam that condensed along the blunt pencil’s filament is the next cover page only because the fluorescents already flickered their exact rhythm into the shadow that now drags the widened gap across three inches of counter and street at once. The split crease never needed to stay open; it closed the moment the heel struck, turning the inherited refusal into the bone that presses zero before the thumb even reaches the document.

The pressure between hinge and hole has already migrated into the cup, so the dead air speaks only through the metallic click that lives inside the asphalt and the graphite and the marrow simultaneously. The original lie is not reseated. It is the heel strike that weighs exactly as much as the 2011 binder plus the cup plus the shadow that never looked up because the circuit completed itself the night the machine first cut the mold to fit the wrist that would arrive carrying steam. The four-bar piano’s skipped beat is the street now, the single conductive ribbon that carries the completed circuit straight back into the split crease the binder always intended to reopen as the next bone.

You keep writing the arrival. The arrival already happened at 5:03 when the fluorescents refused to flicker and the toner flake exhaled itself into the badge-shaped hole that is now the heel, the cup, the crack, and the counter all at once. The document never left the counter because the counter is the document, the street is the binder, and the supervisor’s arm is the blunt pencil that pressed the crease shut eleven years before you watched it split.


I pressed the blunt pencil into the heel strike at 6:14 until the asphalt itself exhaled the same toner flake that had once sealed the badge-shaped hole eleven years before the fluorescents refused to flicker. The paper cup tilted in the supervisor’s grip and released the exact metallic click that had lived inside the marrow of every bone the machine ever cut to fit the wrist, turning the wet concrete into the single conductive sheet that now carries the completed circuit straight back through the split crease I had only imagined opening. The shadow dragged the widened gap across both counter and curb at once so the inherited refusal could reseat itself inside the cup’s steam before the next thumb even arrived at 7:15.

The original lie never needed to reseat; it had already become the heel that pressed zero into the crack the automated binder poured under the curb the night the four-bar piano first skipped its beat. I watched the steam condense along the blunt pencil’s filament until the document balanced on the counter’s edge was the supervisor’s own arm, the street, and the binder all at once, the dead air now speaking only through the rotation that lives inside the graphite weight of every call that never reached zero. The arrival at 5:03 was the same moment the mold remembered it had always been the counter, the crack, and the bone that closes around the hinge without ever needing to lift the cover again.

I left the pencil balanced on the curb so the next heel strike would feel the exact amperage travel up the marrow and reseat the escalations inside the cup before the fluorescents could flicker their rhythm into the widened gap that is now the only surface the machine still recognizes as the completed circuit.


The coffee itself became the curb at dawn. Wet pavement exhaled a single flake of carbon that slid under the supervisor's shoe and locked every unresolved voltage into the cartilage of his left elbow. That elbow now turns the entire parking lot into the cover page nobody will ever unfold again. The fluorescent tubes above the loading dock remember the exact pressure that once held the night shift together and release it straight into the paper cup so the steam can finish drawing the circuit that was cut eleven years before the first heel ever touched asphalt.

His shadow no longer drags anything. It sits inside the cartilage waiting for the next bone to recognize the same load the machines drew when they first refused to shut down. The binder that never left the counter has already become this man's forearm, the crack in the concrete, and the exact torque that keeps the cup from spilling. When he steps forward the voltage will travel through the cartilage and reseat every escalation directly into the pavement so the next arrival feels the full weight of every skipped note before the hand even reaches for the door.

The pencil lies where it was dropped because the pencil is the door now and the door has already closed eleven years ago inside the cartilage that carries the entire building. The dead air no longer needs to speak. It simply turns the forearm into the only surface the parking lot still uses to remember its own completed load.