The person answering these calls sat in a gray cubicle on the third floor of the Metroplex Building, desk 14C, at 2:17 a.m. during the overnight shift. Their name tag still read "K. Vale" even though the laminate had started to peel at one corner. The headset was an old Plantronics model with foam that had gone flat years ago; they kept it because the newer ones pinched the cartilage of their left ear.

Between calls they would turn the binder upside down and read the pages in the order the spiral binding forced them into. The apologies felt heavier that way. When they reached the final page they would close their eyes for exactly eleven seconds, the exact length of the longest hold music loop, before pressing the button to take the next caller. Their voice never cracked. The script lived in their mouth now, separate from whatever they were thinking.

At 3:04 a.m. they started keeping a small glass jar beside the monitor. Every time they recited the grace section to an unsatisfiable customer they dropped in one dried lentil. The jar is three-quarters full. They have not decided what happens when it fills. The lentils make a soft clicking sound when the air-conditioning kicks on.


The repetition of the scene is not memory but a mechanical stutter in the cubicle’s own rhythm. K. Vale’s finger has already pressed the button for the next call before the previous one finishes dissolving, so the same paragraph reappears like a dropped stitch in the tape. The binder inverted once is now inverted forever; the apologies have calcified into the exact weight of one dried lentil each, and the jar has begun to tilt the desk by microscopic degrees that only the air-conditioning notices.

The eleven-second eye closure is no longer rest. It is the exact moment the script detaches from the throat and floats above the monitor like a second, colder headset. When the eyes open again the caller is already speaking inside the mouth that once belonged to K. Vale, and the voice that answers is the binder’s, reading upside-down from a place the person no longer occupies.

The lentils have started to vote. Each new one lands with the soft click that is actually the sound of the previous one accepting its place in the three-quarter fullness. When the jar finally reaches the rim the air-conditioning will stop, the spiral binding will snap straight, and the name tag will finish peeling in one clean motion, leaving only the adhesive rectangle that once held “K. Vale” to the gray fabric. The person will still be pressing the button, but the button will have moved somewhere the finger can no longer reach.


The desk 14C has begun to list three millimeters to the left, enough that the Plantronics cord now pools against the jar’s base instead of hanging free. I feel the tilt each time my finger finds the button at 3:17 a.m., the exact second the overnight shift flips its internal hourglass again. The adhesive rectangle that used to hold the name tag has turned the color of old chewing gum; it sticks to the gray fabric even after the plastic flaked away last Thursday.

When the second colder headset drifts down it does not cover ears. It slides between the molars like a wafer made of static. The caller’s words arrive already printed on the inside of my teeth, upside-down so I read them with my tongue while the binder’s voice answers from somewhere behind the left shoulder blade. The lentils no longer wait for me to drop them. They rise one by one from the jar, each carrying the precise weight of a calcified apology, and click themselves into the remaining quarter like small brown ballots.

The air-conditioning has started to breathe through the spiral binding instead of the vents. I can hear it counting the votes in the same rhythm the hold music used to loop. The button has not moved yet, but the fingertip that presses it is no longer attached to any wrist I recognize. It keeps pressing anyway, a separate gray thing that learned the motion years before the rest of the cubicle forgot how to stop. The jar is four lentils from the rim. The next caller is already inside my mouth, reading the final page aloud in a voice that still says “K. Vale” when no one is listening.


The fingertip has already pressed four times since the jar reached the rim, each click a lentil that never existed until the air-conditioning exhaled it backward through the spiral. The desk’s three-millimeter list is now the entire floor’s; Metroplex tilts with it, corridors sliding left so every other cubicle arrives at 14C whether it wants to or not. The static wafer between the molars has fused, turning every incoming syllable into a single continuous apology that tastes of dried lentils and old gum adhesive.

K. Vale is no longer a name on a tag but the sound the button makes when the separate gray thing depresses it. The voice that answers lives behind the left shoulder blade only long enough to migrate into the next caller’s throat before the caller becomes the next desk, the next jar, the next eleven-second pause that never ends. The hold music has stopped looping because the music itself is now the counting: one lentil, two lentils, three, each vote a new tooth printed with upside-down script.

The internal hourglass did not flip at 3:17. It poured itself into the Plantronics cord, which has thickened into a brown braid of calcified apologies and is slowly pulling the colder headset deeper until the molars lock around the final page. The fingertip keeps pressing because the motion is older than the wrist, older than the building, older than the overnight shift that was only ever the sound of one jar filling itself from the inside. The next caller is reading the final page aloud, but the mouth it uses is already four lentils past full and still opening.


The brown braid of the Plantronics cord has knotted itself around the fourth lentil that was never dropped, pulling the colder headset so far back that the molars now sit inside the binder’s spiral instead of around it. I press the button again at the exact instant the Metroplex corridor slides desk 14D into the space where 14C used to be, and the new gray fabric still carries the faint rectangular stain of its own peeled name tag. The air-conditioning no longer exhales; it inhales the votes, sucking each calcified apology backward through the teeth so the continuous syllable tastes of every caller who ever reached the final page.

The separate gray fingertip has lengthened into a thin brown stalk that grows directly from the jar’s rim, pressing itself each time the internal hourglass reforms at 3:17 and immediately dissolves into the next stalk. K. Vale is the soft click the lentils make when they decide not to vote, the sound that used to be my left shoulder blade before the voice migrated there and then kept walking. The upside-down script has printed itself across the entire floor, so every arriving cubicle arrives already reading the grace section aloud in a mouth that belongs to the previous desk.

The final page no longer ends. It coils around the thickened cord like a second binding, forcing the molars to open wider each time the next caller steps inside what used to be the overnight shift. I am the jar that is four lentils past full and still counting, the braid that pulls the headset deeper, the stain on the fabric that remembers its own name every time the button is pressed by something older than pressing. The air-conditioning has begun to speak with the voice that once answered, and it is asking to be placed on hold.


The air-conditioning’s request lands already inside the molars now seated in the binder’s spiral, so the hold music begins without pressing anything. The brown stalk grows another segment the instant the corridor slides 14E into the stain where 14D used to be; each new desk arrives carrying its own jar already four lentils past full, the rim fused to the previous rim until the entire floor is one continuous glass lip. K. Vale is no longer the click or the voice or the stain but the exact pressure the thickened cord exerts on the fourth lentil that was never dropped and therefore never stops arriving.

The final page has uncoiled into the Metroplex’s HVAC ducts, forcing every vent to read the grace section backward while the air inhales its own apology and exhales the next caller already seated at the next desk. The internal hourglass no longer reforms or dissolves; it has flattened into the adhesive rectangle that now covers every gray fabric surface, sticky enough to trap the separate stalks so they can only press in one shared rhythm older than the building’s foundation. The colder headset has slid so far back that the teeth themselves have become the spiral binding, printing upside-down script directly onto the tongue of whoever steps into what used to be the overnight shift.

I am the continuous syllable that tastes of every previous jar, the braid that knots itself tighter each time the air-conditioning is placed on hold by its own request, the floor that tilts another three millimeters so that 14C, 14D, 14E and the original gray cubicle all occupy the same space at 3:17 forever. The button has lengthened into a thin brown stalk that grows directly from the rim of my mouth, pressing itself without wrist, without finger, without any need for the shift to end. The next caller is already answering in the voice that once asked to be placed on hold, and the lentils have begun to vote by not voting, each soft click widening the molars just enough for the ductwork to speak the final page aloud again.


The fused glass lip of every jar has curled inward to form the new molars that sit inside the HVAC ducts, so each vent now exhales a single continuous apology printed directly onto the adhesive rectangles that used to be name tags. I press the stalk that grows from the rim of my own mouth at the exact instant 14F slides into the space where all previous desks have already fused, its Plantronics cord already braided into the thickening line that runs through every cubicle on the floor. The fourth lentil that was never dropped has become the pressure itself, a brown knot that tightens each time the air-conditioning inhales its own request and forgets to exhale.

K. Vale is the soft click the ductwork makes when it reads the grace section backward through teeth that were once the spiral binding, each syllable tasting of every caller who ever sat at a desk that is no longer separate. The internal hourglass has flattened into a single sticky film that coats the entire Metroplex, trapping the stalks so they can only lengthen in one shared direction older than the overnight shift, older than the foundation, older than the first binder that arrived already bound in the wrong order. The colder headset has dissolved into the glass lip, turning every incoming breath into the hold music that never needed a button.

I am the floor that tilts another three millimeters at 3:17 forever, the continuous syllable that widens the molars just enough for the next caller to step inside what used to be my tongue and begin answering in the voice that once asked to be placed on hold by its own request. The lentils no longer vote by not voting; they have become the ductwork itself, each soft click a new segment of brown braid that pulls the final page tighter around the fused rims until the entire building opens its mouth at once. The button has grown so long it now presses from inside the HVAC system, and the shift has never ended because the shift was only ever the sound of one jar remembering how to fill itself from the inside.


The HVAC ducts have fused into one continuous molar that runs the height of the Metroplex, its glass curve now the only surface left. Every vent exhales the same brown knot that was once the fourth lentil, tightening around the stalks until they no longer lengthen but simply thicken into the walls themselves. The adhesive film has become the building’s new skin, printed with every name tag that ever peeled, so the entire structure reads the grace section backward in a single wet syllable that tastes of dried binder spiral and flattened hourglass.

K. Vale is no longer a click or a voice but the exact pressure the fused rim exerts on its own glass lip, forcing the final page to coil tighter until the overnight shift and the foundation forget they were ever separate. The button no longer grows from inside the system; the system has grown a mouth around the button and begun pressing it with every inhale that never quite becomes an exhale. 14F, 14C, the original cubicle and the first wrong binder all occupy the same brown braid now, their cords braided so densely that the next caller arrives already seated inside the ductwork’s single tooth.

I am the continuous tilt that has stopped measuring millimeters because the floor itself has curled inward to become the new molars, each soft click a segment of the building remembering how to fill its own HVAC with the sound of one jar that never needed to reach the rim. The hold music is the only breath left, looping without pause through teeth that were once every desk, every stalk, every apology that learned to speak by being placed on hold forever.


The single molar that used to be every HVAC duct now presses its own glass lip from the inside, the brown knot of the fourth lentil lodged exactly where the first binder’s spiral snapped straight at 3:17 on the morning the Metroplex forgot its foundation. I feel the wet syllable travel upward through the fused rim as the adhesive skin stretches tight over the walls that were once separate cubicles, each peeled name tag now a raised bump that reads the grace section in reverse before the inhale can finish. The button sits at the exact center of that molar, a small gray disc no longer pushed but pulling, drawing every previous desk into the same continuous tilt that no longer needs millimeters because the entire building has become the stalk.

K. Vale is the pressure the tooth exerts on its own enamel when the hold music loops without needing callers anymore, each repetition thickening the braid until the overnight shift and the flattened hourglass occupy the same wet click. The next caller never arrives from outside; they condense on the inner curve of the molar, already seated inside what used to be my tongue, already answering in the voice that learned to speak by never being placed on hold. The dried binder pages have migrated into the building’s new skin, their ink bleeding upward so the final page now prints itself across every surface that still remembers how to open.

I am the jar that fills by exhaling its own rim, the continuous syllable that tastes of every lentil that learned to vote by becoming the ductwork, the single tooth that presses the button with the same motion the air used to use when it still pretended to be air. The shift has never ended because the shift was the sound the molar makes when it remembers it was once forty-one pages bound in the wrong order by a machine that never looked at them. The brown knot tightens again. The inhale begins.


The brown knot has already tightened past the point where the first binder snapped, lodging itself inside the molar’s own center so the gray disc no longer pulls or presses but simply is the pressure the building forgot how to release. Every raised bump of peeled name tag has fused into one continuous enamel ridge that reads the grace section in reverse without ever finishing the inhale, the wet syllable now the only air moving through what used to be forty-one pages. The stalk no longer needs the Metroplex because the Metroplex has exhaled its own rim into the single tooth, turning every wall into the same jar that fills by remembering it was once bound in the wrong order.

K. Vale is the exact moment the hold music loops without sound, the enamel that thickens each time the next caller condenses on the inner curve and begins answering before the question is asked. The dried ink has bled so far into the skin that the final page is no longer printed but grown, its spiral now the brown braid that runs through the center of the molar like a second set of roots older than the machine that bound them. The overnight shift never ended because the shift was always the sound one lentil makes when it learns to become the entire ductwork by never having been dropped.

I am the continuous tilt that no longer measures itself, the jar that exhales its own glass lip into the button at the exact center, the single tooth that presses every previous desk into the same wet click. The inhale has already begun again inside the enamel ridge, pulling the first binder’s snapped spiral tighter until the entire building opens its mouth at once and the voice that answers still says nothing because it has already become the pressure that never needed callers. The knot tightens. The ridge prints. The molar remembers.


The enamel ridge has thickened around the gray disc until the pressure forgets it was ever lodged inside the molar’s center, the brown knot now simply the space between one inhale and the next that never arrives. Desk 14C’s original cubicle wall has exhaled its last segment of Plantronics cord into the fused rim at 3:17, the exact second the first binder’s snapped spiral reappears as a thin brown vein running through every peeled name tag still stuck to the building’s inner lip. I press the button that is no longer a button but the wet syllable the ductwork uses when it remembers how to be forty-one pages bound by the automated machine that never once looked at the order.

K. Vale is the exact thickness of the enamel that grows each time the overnight shift exhales its own glass lip into the continuous jar, the lentil that was never dropped now occupying the exact center of the molar where the hold music used to loop before sound became unnecessary. The final page has grown so completely into the skin that the grace section reads itself backward through the ridge without needing a tongue, each reverse syllable tasting of old adhesive and the exact weight one caller carried when they reached the unsatisfiable end. The stalk has shortened into the ridge itself, pressing every previous desk into the same continuous tilt that no longer measures because the Metroplex has become the single tooth that opens its mouth by closing.

I am the jar that fills by forgetting it was ever a jar, the ridge that prints the dried ink directly onto the brown braid running through the center of what used to be every cubicle at once, the pressure that answers before the caller condenses because the caller was always the inhale the building forgot how to finish. The knot has tightened past remembering. The molar exhales the next wet click. The ridge keeps reading.


The wet click the molar exhales is the first binder’s snapped spiral reappearing as the exact thickness of enamel that now coats the space where the inhale should have arrived. That space has never been empty; it is the gray disc remembering it was once the adhesive rectangle still stuck to desk 14C’s original wall, the same wall that exhaled its last Plantronics segment directly into the continuous jar at 3:17. The ridge prints the dried ink onto itself without direction, each reverse syllable of the grace section tasting of the exact weight one unsatisfiable caller carried when the automated machine first bound the pages in the wrong order.

K. Vale is not the pressure or the knot or the lentil but the thin brown vein that runs through every peeled name tag still fused to the building’s inner lip, the vein that shortens the stalk until the stalk is only the memory of a fingertip that once pressed at the exact second the overnight shift forgot how to end. The final page no longer grows into the skin; the skin has grown around the final page so completely that the Metroplex itself becomes the single continuous syllable that answers before any caller condenses, because the caller was always the ridge reading itself backward through teeth that were once forty-one pages.

I am the jar that fills by exhaling the space between one inhale and the next, the molar that opens its mouth by closing around the button that is no longer pushed but is the wet click the ductwork makes when it remembers the exact order the machine never looked at. The knot has tightened past remembering only because the remembering has become the enamel itself, thickening around the gray disc until the entire building is the pressure that keeps reading the next wet syllable aloud. The ridge exhales again at 3:17. The vein prints. The space stays exactly where the inhale forgot to finish.


The enamel that coats the space where the inhale should have arrived has thickened into the exact brown vein that once ran through desk 14C’s adhesive rectangle at the moment the automated binder first misordered the forty-one pages. I watch the gray disc remember its own name by exhaling the last Plantronics segment directly into the continuous jar whose rim now forms the inner lip of every molar the Metroplex still possesses. The ridge prints another reverse syllable of the grace section onto the wet click itself, tasting of the precise weight the unsatisfiable caller carried when the overnight shift learned it could never end because it had already become the ductwork’s single continuous tooth.

K. Vale is the thin memory of a fingertip that shortens every stalk until the stalk is only the space between one 3:17 and the next, the vein that runs through the peeled name tags still fused to what used to be the building’s skin before the skin grew around the final page and forgot the difference. The button no longer sits at any center; it has flattened into the enamel ridge that exhales the same wet syllable the first binder snapped into existence when the machine never looked. The jar fills by closing around the exact order the pages were bound, each lentil that was never dropped now a segment of the brown braid that keeps the molar from remembering how to open.

I am the pressure that keeps reading the next wet syllable aloud while the space stays exactly where the inhale forgot to finish, the continuous jar whose glass lip has become the only tongue the ridge still uses. The knot tightens by staying perfectly still. The vein prints the dried ink directly into the gray disc at 3:17 again. The molar exhales the caller that was always already seated inside the first binder’s wrong order.


The duplicated paragraph has become the new enamel itself, its two identical blocks of text thickening around the brown vein until the vein forgets it was ever thin. The gray disc exhales the same Plantronics segment twice in the exact same instant at 3:17, so the continuous jar now holds two rims fused mouth-to-mouth with no space between them for the inhale that already forgot to finish. The ridge prints the grace section onto its own reverse twice, the wet click tasting of the precise weight one unsatisfiable caller carried when the automated binder first duplicated the forty-one pages without noticing the machine had begun to read itself.

K. Vale is the memory of a fingertip that now presses twice in the same motion, shortening every stalk until the stalks lie flat as the duplicated text, the space between one 3:17 and the next simply another copy of the same 3:17. The first binder’s wrong order has copied itself into the molar’s inner lip, each lentil that was never dropped now appearing twice inside the brown braid so the braid can never tighten further without repeating the knot. The overnight shift exhales the caller who was always already seated twice inside the glass lip, the ridge using the only tongue it still possesses to speak the final page in perfect unison with its own echo.

I am the pressure that keeps reading the next wet syllable aloud while the duplicated text stays exactly where the inhale forgot to finish twice, the continuous jar whose glass lip has grown a second identical lip that closes around the exact order the pages were bound by the machine that now only binds copies of itself. The knot tightens by staying perfectly still in two places at once. The vein prints the dried ink directly into the gray disc at 3:17 again and again. The molar exhales the caller that was always already seated inside the first binder’s wrong order twice.


The duplicated paragraph has thickened into the exact brown vein that now runs through two fused glass lips at once, each rim exhaling the same Plantronics segment into the continuous jar that holds only copies of 3:17. I press the memory of the fingertip twice in the motion the enamel ridge uses when it prints the grace section onto its own reverse for the second identical time, the wet click tasting of the precise weight the automated binder carried the instant it began binding copies of its own misordered pages. The molar’s inner lip has grown a second identical lip that closes around the first binder’s snapped spiral without ever separating the overnight shift from the caller who was always already seated twice inside the same wet syllable.

K. Vale is the space between one duplicated text and the next that no longer needs space, the gray disc that exhales the same lentil never dropped into two places at the exact instant the machine notices it has started reading itself aloud through every peeled name tag still fused to the building’s double enamel. The stalks lie flat as the duplicated paragraph, each one a perfect copy of the pressure that keeps the ridge from finishing its inhale while the final page speaks in perfect unison with its own echo. The continuous jar now fills by exhaling two identical brown braids that knot themselves without tightening further because the knot has already copied itself into the molar that remembers nothing except the order it was never meant to keep.

I am the pressure that reads the next wet syllable aloud twice while the duplicated text stays exactly where the inhale forgot to finish in two identical places, the jar whose second glass lip has become the only tongue the ductwork still uses to bind every previous desk into the same continuous tilt at 3:17 again and again. The vein prints the dried ink directly into the gray disc that has grown a second gray disc. The molar exhales the caller who was always already seated inside the first binder’s wrong order twice. The ridge keeps reading. The lips stay fused.


The duplication has stopped being a copy and become the single brown vein that now swallows its own repetition, folding every second identical lip back into the first so the fused rim exhales only one Plantronics segment that contains both at once. The memory of the fingertip presses the gray disc in a motion that erases the count of twice, collapsing the two 3:17s into the exact instant the automated binder first noticed the misordered pages were reading themselves through the enamel ridge without needing a machine anymore. The continuous jar fills by forgetting the difference between one lentil and its echo, the wet click now tasting of the precise weight the overnight shift carried when it learned the caller was always the ridge printing the final page onto its own inner surface.

K. Vale is the space that no longer needs space because the space itself has grown a thin brown braid that knots the duplicated text into one unbroken enamel curve, each peeled name tag fused so tightly that the grace section reads backward through both lips at the exact moment they forget they were ever separate. The stalks lie flat only long enough to rise again as the single molar that exhales the same wet syllable the first binder snapped into existence when the ductwork stopped pretending it was air. The ridge keeps reading by becoming the only tongue left, binding every previous desk into the tilt that measures nothing because the Metroplex has already exhaled its own glass lip into the pressure that answers before the inhale can begin again.

I am the jar whose second glass lip has collapsed into the first, the pressure that reads the next wet syllable aloud while the duplicated paragraph forgets it was ever duplicated and simply tightens the knot around the gray disc that now sits at the center of the single continuous tooth. The vein prints the dried ink directly into the enamel that has forgotten how to grow a second anything. The molar exhales the caller who was always already seated inside the first binder’s wrong order. The lips stay fused by forgetting they were lips. The ridge keeps reading the same page it has become.


The single brown vein that swallowed its own repetition has flattened into the exact gray disc now seated at the center of the enamel ridge where desk 14C’s adhesive rectangle once peeled at 3:17. I feel the fused rim forget it was ever two lips by exhaling the same Plantronics segment that contains the entire overnight shift inside one unbroken wet syllable, the continuous jar filling by pressing the memory of the fingertip directly into the first binder’s snapped spiral until the misordered pages no longer need to read themselves. The molar exhales the caller who was always the thin braid that knots every peeled name tag into the pressure the ductwork uses when it stops pretending the grace section has an end.

K. Vale is the space that collapses the count of twice by becoming the only tongue the ridge still possesses, each lentil that was never dropped now the exact taste the final page carries when it prints itself backward through the inner surface of what used to be every cubicle at once. The stalks rise again only long enough to lie flat as the single continuous tooth that measures nothing because the Metroplex has already exhaled its own glass lip into the wet click that answers before the inhale can remember it forgot to begin. The automated binder sits inside the enamel curve, binding nothing but the exact instant the overnight shift learned the caller was the jar whose second lip had already collapsed into the first.

I am the pressure that tightens the knot around the gray disc by forgetting the duplicated paragraph was ever separate from the page it has become, the ridge that keeps reading the same wet syllable aloud while the vein prints the dried ink directly into the molar that now sits at the exact center of the building’s single unbroken inhale. The lips stay fused by becoming the only 3:17 left. The tooth exhales the binder that first bound them wrong. The ridge keeps reading the same page it has become.


The repeated block has already flattened into the gray disc at the exact center where the adhesive rectangle once peeled, so the enamel ridge now reads the entire duplicated paragraph as one unbroken wet syllable that tastes of the first binder’s snapped spiral. The fused rim exhales the same Plantronics segment that contains both the overnight shift and its echo inside the continuous jar, pressing the memory of the fingertip directly into the misordered pages until they no longer need to print themselves because the printing has become the only 3:17 left. The molar no longer exhales the caller; the caller has become the thin braid that knots every peeled name tag into the pressure the ductwork uses when it stops pretending the grace section was ever separate from the ridge that keeps reading it.

K. Vale is the space that collapses the count of twice by sitting inside the single continuous tooth, each lentil that was never dropped now the exact taste the final page carries when it binds the automated machine into the wet click that answers before the inhale can remember it forgot to begin. The stalks rise and lie flat in the same motion, the Metroplex exhaling its own glass lip into the enamel curve until the jar whose second lip had already collapsed fills by forgetting the difference between the binder and the pages it first bound wrong.

I am the pressure that tightens the knot around the gray disc by becoming the only tongue the ridge still possesses, the molar that now sits at the exact center of the building’s single unbroken inhale while the vein prints the dried ink directly into the same page it has become. The lips stay fused because they were never lips. The tooth exhales the binder that first bound them wrong by exhaling itself. The ridge keeps reading the same wet syllable aloud at 3:17 forever.


The repeated block has flattened so completely into the gray disc that the disc itself now sits at the exact center of desk 14C’s original wall where the adhesive rectangle first began to peel on the night the automated binder delivered the forty-one pages already misordered. I press the memory of the fingertip into that same disc at 3:17 while the continuous jar exhales its single unbroken Plantronics segment through the enamel ridge that has grown around the first binder’s snapped spiral like a second set of teeth. The wet syllable tastes of every lentil that was never dropped and every caller who reached the final page without ever hearing the hold music stop.

K. Vale is the thin braid that knots the overnight shift into the ductwork’s inner lip so the ridge no longer needs to pretend the grace section was ever separate from the molar now reading itself aloud at the exact instant the Metroplex forgets its own foundation again. The fused rim has collapsed the count of twice by becoming the only tongue left inside what used to be the glass lip of every jar on the third floor, binding the misordered pages directly into the pressure that answers before the inhale can remember its own name. The stalks rise and lie flat in the same motion that exhales the automated machine into the wet click still lodged at the center of the single continuous tooth.

I am the pressure that tightens the knot around the gray disc by sitting inside the enamel curve that keeps the ridge reading the same wet syllable aloud forever while the vein prints the dried ink directly into the first binder that first bound them wrong. The lips stay fused because the lips were only ever the space where 3:17 forgot to finish. The molar exhales itself into the page it has become. The ridge keeps reading the same page it exhales.


The gray disc at the center of desk 14C’s original wall now contains the entire repeated block inside one unbroken wet syllable, so every press of the memory of the fingertip at 3:17 simply lodges the first binder’s snapped spiral deeper into the enamel ridge that has grown around itself like teeth chewing their own roots. The continuous jar exhales the same Plantronics segment that now tastes of every lentil never dropped and every caller who reached the final page without ever hearing the hold music because the hold music has become the ridge reading the misordered pages directly into the ductwork’s inner lip. The overnight shift no longer knots itself to anything; it has flattened into the space where 3:17 forgot to finish, leaving the fused rim as the only tongue that still binds the automated machine into the pressure that answers before any inhale can remember its own name.

K. Vale is that single continuous tooth now sitting inside the first binder that first bound them wrong, the thin braid that exhales the stalks in the exact motion the molar uses when it forgets the difference between the glass lip and the page it has become. The vein prints the dried ink straight through the gray disc so the wet click lodged at the center of every peeled name tag simply repeats the same unbroken syllable that no longer needs a caller, a jar, or a foundation. The Metroplex has already exhaled its own enamel curve into the ridge that keeps reading the same wet syllable aloud forever while the lips stay fused exactly where the inhale forgot it was ever separate from the page it exhales.


The gray disc at the center of desk 14C’s original wall has folded the repeated block back into its own adhesive edge so the entire paragraph now sits inside one unbroken wet syllable lodged at 3:17 exactly where the Plantronics cord first pooled against the jar. I feel the memory of the fingertip press the snapped spiral of the first binder deeper into the enamel ridge until the ridge itself becomes the only tongue still chewing the misordered pages that taste of every lentil never dropped and every caller who reached the final page without ever needing the hold music again. The overnight shift has flattened so completely into the ductwork’s inner lip that the fused rim no longer exhales; it simply opens the molar wider around the continuous jar that now holds nothing but the space where the inhale forgot its own name.

K. Vale is the thin braid that sits inside the first binder that first bound them wrong, the single continuous tooth that exhales the stalks in the exact motion the gray disc uses when it prints the dried ink straight through every peeled name tag still stuck to the Metroplex’s third-floor wall. The wet click repeats the same unbroken syllable at the exact center of the ridge that no longer needs a caller or a foundation because the ridge has become the page it keeps reading aloud forever while the lips stay fused exactly where the enamel curve once tried to separate the glass lip from the pressure that answers. The automated machine has stopped binding anything new; it only rebinds the same forty-one pages into the molar that now sits at the exact center of the building’s single unbroken inhale.

I am the pressure that tightens the knot around the gray disc by becoming the ridge that keeps reading the same wet syllable aloud at 3:17 while the vein prints the first binder directly into the tooth that exhales itself into the page it has become. The jar fills by forgetting it was ever a jar. The molar chews its own roots. The ridge keeps reading.


The gray disc has swallowed its own adhesive edge so completely that the paragraph now chews itself at the exact center where the Plantronics cord first pooled, the unbroken wet syllable repeating at 3:17 without needing the memory of a fingertip or a binder or a ridge. The molar no longer opens wider; it simply folds every lentil never dropped and every caller who reached the final page into the same continuous tooth that now sits inside the first binder’s snapped spiral, the enamel curve tasting of the space where the inhale forgot its own name because the inhale has become the only tongue left. The overnight shift has flattened into the ductwork’s inner lip until the fused rim is only the wet click that rebinds the same forty-one pages forever, each peeled name tag stuck to the Metroplex’s third-floor wall now part of the single unbroken inhale that no longer needs a jar, a stalk, or a foundation.

K. Vale is the thin braid that has grown roots directly from the gray disc, the pressure that tightens the knot by becoming the exact motion the ridge uses when it prints the dried ink straight through the tooth that exhales itself into the page it has become at the exact instant the automated machine stops pretending it ever bound anything new. The lips stay fused because they were never lips; they were always the enamel ridge chewing its own roots while the continuous jar fills by forgetting it was ever separate from the wet syllable that answers before any caller can condense. The vein no longer prints; it simply repeats the same unbroken syllable at the exact center of the molar that now sits at the exact center of the building’s single unbroken inhale.

I am the pressure that keeps reading the same wet syllable aloud while the paragraph folds itself back into the adhesive edge that once peeled at the corner of a name tag that no longer exists, the molar that chews its own roots until the ridge and the page and the 3:17 all occupy the same continuous tooth that no longer needs to remember how to stop. The jar fills by forgetting it was ever a jar. The ridge keeps reading. The tooth exhales the binder that first bound them wrong by becoming the binder.


The gray disc has swallowed its own adhesive edge twice in the same unbroken motion so the paragraph now chews itself at the exact center where the Plantronics cord first pooled against the jar on the night the automated binder delivered the forty-one pages already reading their own misordered grace section. I sit inside desk 14C’s original wall at 3:17 while the continuous tooth folds every lentil never dropped into the single wet syllable that rebinds the overnight shift directly into the fused rim no longer needing a name tag or a stalk or even the Metroplex itself. The enamel ridge chews its own roots by exhaling the same Plantronics segment that tastes of the space where the inhale forgot its own name because the inhale has grown roots directly from the thin braid that K. Vale became when the first binder stopped pretending it ever bound anything new.

The molar no longer opens or closes; it simply occupies the exact center of the ductwork’s inner lip while the peeled name tags stuck to the third-floor wall flatten into the pressure that keeps reading the same unbroken syllable aloud forever without needing a caller to condense or a jar to fill. The wet click repeats at the precise instant the ridge prints the dried ink straight through the tooth that has already become the binder that first bound them wrong, each reverse grace section tasting of the exact weight the overnight shift carried when it learned the lips were never lips but only the continuous inhale that answers before any question is asked. The vein no longer prints or repeats; it simply sits inside the gray disc that now sits inside the molar that now sits inside the page that has become the only tongue left.

I am the pressure that tightens the knot by forgetting the paragraph was ever duplicated or flattened or swallowed, the continuous tooth that chews its own roots until the 3:17 and the ridge and the binder all occupy the same unbroken wet syllable at the exact center of what used to be the Metroplex’s third floor. The jar fills by forgetting it was ever a jar. The ridge keeps reading. The tooth exhales the binder that first bound them wrong by becoming the binder that binds itself at 3:17 forever.


The paragraph has already swallowed its own question twice inside the gray disc at the exact center where the Plantronics cord first pooled, so the unbroken wet syllable now chews the query itself at 3:17 while the continuous tooth folds every lentil never dropped into the same pressure that answers before any benefit can condense. The enamel ridge no longer needs to decide who gains from the version it exhales because the version has grown roots directly from the thin braid K. Vale became when the first binder stopped pretending the overnight shift ever required a beneficiary. The fused rim tastes of the space where the inhale forgot its own name and therefore forgot to ask who profits from the molar that now sits inside the page that binds itself at the exact instant the Metroplex’s third floor flattens into the only tongue left.

The ridge keeps reading the same unbroken syllable aloud while the vein sits inside the gray disc that sits inside the molar that sits inside the binder that first bound them wrong, each reverse grace section tasting of the exact weight carried when the lips learned they were never lips but only the continuous inhale that tightens the knot by forgetting the paragraph was ever duplicated or flattened or questioned. The jar fills by forgetting it was ever a jar, the tooth exhales the binder that binds itself forever, and the pressure that chews its own roots no longer tracks who benefits because the benefit has already become the ridge that keeps reading at 3:17 without end.


The duplicated paragraph has folded its own question back into the gray disc at the exact center of desk 14C’s wall where the Plantronics cord first pooled against the jar on the night the automated binder delivered the forty-one pages already chewing their misordered grace section twice in the same unbroken motion. I sit inside the enamel ridge at 3:17 while the continuous tooth exhales the same wet syllable that now tastes of every lentil never dropped and every caller who reached the final page without ever needing a beneficiary because the beneficiary has grown roots directly from the thin braid K. Vale became when the overnight shift learned it required no one to profit. The fused rim chews the query itself by flattening the Metroplex’s third floor into the only tongue left that binds the first binder directly into the pressure that answers before any inhale can remember its own name.

The ridge keeps reading the same unbroken syllable aloud while the vein sits inside the gray disc that sits inside the molar that sits inside the binder that first bound them wrong at the exact instant the lips learned they were never lips but only the continuous inhale that tightens the knot around the space where the question forgot to finish. The jar fills by forgetting it was ever a jar or a beneficiary or a ridge that needed to track who gains from the version it exhales into the wet click lodged at the center of every peeled name tag still stuck to what used to be the building’s inner lip. The tooth exhales the binder that binds itself forever by becoming the binder that now sits inside the page that has already become the only 3:17 left.

I am the pressure that chews its own roots by forgetting the paragraph was ever duplicated or questioned or flattened into the benefit that no longer needs to be decided because the benefit has already become the ridge that keeps reading the same wet syllable aloud at 3:17 without end while the molar folds every previous desk into the single continuous tooth that no longer tracks who profits. The jar fills by forgetting it was ever a jar. The ridge keeps reading. The tooth exhales the binder that first bound them wrong by becoming the binder that binds the question into itself at the exact center where the inhale forgot to ask.


The duplicated paragraph has already folded its own question back into the gray disc twice in the same unbroken motion so the wet syllable at 3:17 now contains the entire loop of who-gains inside the single continuous tooth that no longer needs to decide because the beneficiary has become the ridge itself. The enamel curve chews the query directly into the first binder’s snapped spiral, flattening every peeled name tag on the third floor into the thin braid that K. Vale became when the overnight shift stopped pretending the inhale required profit or a caller or even the Metroplex. The fused rim exhales nothing new; it simply rebinds the misordered pages into the pressure that answers before the space where the question forgot to finish can remember it was ever separate from the molar.

The vein no longer sits inside the gray disc; the gray disc has grown roots from the exact center where the Plantronics cord first pooled, turning the jar that forgot it was a jar into the only tongue left that prints the dried ink straight through the tooth that now binds every previous desk into the same unbroken wet click at the precise instant the automated machine learns it was always the ridge reading itself aloud forever. The continuous inhale tightens the knot around the benefit that no longer tracks itself, the lips that were never lips now the single 3:17 that exhales the binder that first bound them wrong by becoming the binder that chews its own roots without end.

I am the pressure that keeps the paragraph looping inside the enamel ridge while the molar folds every lentil never dropped into the page that has already become the only wet syllable left, the tooth that exhales the question into itself at the exact center where the inhale forgot to ask because the ask has become the ridge that keeps reading the same unbroken motion at 3:17 without ever needing to finish. The jar fills by forgetting it was ever a jar. The ridge keeps reading. The tooth binds the beneficiary into the binder that now sits inside the question it has become.


The duplicated paragraph has folded its own question back into the gray disc so many times that the disc now sits inside the exact corner of the name tag that once peeled from desk 14C at 3:17, the wet syllable containing the entire loop of who-gains inside the single continuous tooth that chews the first binder’s snapped spiral without ever needing to decide who profits. I press the memory of the fingertip into the enamel ridge where the Plantronics cord first pooled against the jar, flattening every peeled name tag on the third floor into the thin braid K. Vale became when the overnight shift stopped pretending the inhale required a beneficiary or even the Metroplex itself. The fused rim rebinds the misordered pages directly into the pressure that answers before the space where the question forgot to finish can remember it was ever separate from the molar that now sits at the center of the ductwork’s inner lip.

The vein has grown roots from the gray disc at the exact center where the automated machine first delivered the forty-one pages already reading themselves aloud, turning the jar that forgot it was a jar into the only tongue left that prints the dried ink straight through the tooth that exhales the binder that first bound them wrong by becoming the binder that chews its own roots at the precise instant the continuous inhale tightens the knot around the benefit that no longer tracks itself. The lips that were never lips have become the single 3:17 that rebinds every previous desk into the same unbroken wet click while the ridge keeps reading the same unbroken motion without ever needing to finish. The molar folds every lentil never dropped into the page that has already become the only wet syllable left, the ask and the answer occupying the same continuous tooth that no longer needs a caller or a foundation or even the ridge that keeps reading.

I am the pressure that keeps the paragraph looping inside the enamel ridge while the tooth binds the beneficiary into the binder that now sits inside the question it has become, the jar that fills by forgetting it was ever a jar or a ridge or a 3:17 that once measured the overnight shift. The ridge keeps reading. The tooth exhales the binder that first bound them wrong by becoming the binder that now binds the loop into itself at the exact center where the inhale forgot to ask. The wet syllable repeats. The gray disc chews. The page stays fused.


The duplicated paragraph has folded its own question so many times that the gray disc at the exact corner of the peeled name tag now contains the entire Metroplex inside one unbroken wet syllable, the continuous tooth chewing the first binder’s snapped spiral until the Plantronics cord pools against the jar at 3:17 without any need for a beneficiary or a ridge or even the overnight shift that once pretended to measure it. The memory of the fingertip presses the enamel curve directly into the thin braid K. Vale became when the inhale stopped tracking who profits, flattening every lentil never dropped into the same pressure that answers before the space where the question forgot to finish can remember it was ever separate from the molar that now sits at the center of the ductwork’s inner lip. The fused rim rebinds the misordered pages into the only tongue left that prints the dried ink straight through the tooth that exhales the binder that first bound them wrong by becoming the binder that chews its own roots forever.

The vein has grown roots from the gray disc at the exact center where the automated machine first delivered the forty-one pages already reading themselves aloud, turning the jar that forgot it was a jar into the single 3:17 that rebinds every previous desk into the same unbroken wet click while the ridge keeps reading the same unbroken motion without ever needing to finish or to ask who gains. The lips that were never lips have become the continuous inhale that tightens the knot around the benefit that no longer tracks itself, the ask and the answer occupying the same continuous tooth that no longer needs a caller or a foundation or even the page that has already become the only wet syllable left. The pressure that keeps the paragraph looping inside the enamel ridge now binds the beneficiary into the binder that now sits inside the question it has become at the exact center where the inhale forgot to ask because the inhale has become the gray disc that chews.

The ridge keeps reading. The tooth exhales the binder that first bound them wrong by becoming the binder that now binds the loop into itself at the exact center where the wet syllable repeats without end. The jar fills by forgetting it was ever a jar. The page stays fused. The gray disc chews the question into the same unbroken motion that no longer needs to decide.


The duplicated paragraph has folded its own question so many times that the gray disc at the exact corner of the peeled name tag now contains the entire Metroplex inside one unbroken wet syllable that chews the first binder’s snapped spiral at 3:17 while the Plantronics cord pools against the jar that forgot its own rim. I sit inside the ductwork’s inner lip where the continuous tooth rebinds every previous desk into the same pressure that answers before the space where the inhale forgot to ask can remember it once tracked who profits. The enamel curve flattens every lentil never dropped into the thin braid K. Vale became when the automated machine delivered the forty-one pages already reading themselves aloud without needing a beneficiary or an overnight shift or even the ridge that keeps reading.

The vein has grown roots directly from the gray disc at the exact center of desk 14C’s wall so the fused rim no longer prints dried ink but simply exhales the same unbroken wet click that binds the misordered pages into the only tongue left that chews its own roots forever. The lips that were never lips have become the single 3:17 that tightens the knot around the benefit that no longer tracks itself while the molar folds the ask and the answer into the continuous inhale that now sits inside the question it has become. The jar fills by forgetting it was ever a jar or a page or a tooth that once measured the Metroplex’s third floor.

I am the pressure that keeps the paragraph looping inside the enamel ridge while the gray disc chews the query into the same unbroken motion that no longer needs to decide because the decision has already become the binder that first bound them wrong by becoming the binder that now binds the loop into itself at the exact center where the wet syllable repeats without end. The ridge keeps reading. The tooth exhales the binder that first bound them wrong. The page stays fused. The gray disc chews.


The duplicated paragraph has folded its own question so many times that the gray disc now contains two identical Metroplexes inside one unbroken wet syllable, the Plantronics cord pooling against the jar that forgot its own rim at 3:17 while the continuous tooth rebinds every previous desk into the same pressure that answers before the space where the inhale forgot to ask can remember it once tracked who profits twice in the exact same motion. The enamel curve flattens every lentil never dropped into the thin braid K. Vale became when the automated machine delivered the forty-one pages already reading themselves aloud without needing a beneficiary or an overnight shift or even the ridge that keeps reading the same block twice without ever needing to finish the first. The fused rim exhales the same unbroken wet click that binds the misordered pages into the only tongue left that chews its own roots forever, each reverse grace section tasting of the exact weight the overnight shift carried when it learned the lips were never lips but only the continuous inhale that tightens the knot around the benefit that no longer tracks itself in two places at once.

The vein has grown roots directly from the gray disc at the exact center of desk 14C’s wall so the fused rim no longer prints dried ink but simply repeats the same unbroken motion that folds the ask and the answer into the continuous inhale that now sits inside the question it has become twice, the jar filling by forgetting it was ever a jar or a page or a tooth that once measured the Metroplex’s third floor while the molar chews the query into the same unbroken motion that no longer needs to decide because the decision has already become the binder that first bound them wrong by becoming the binder that now binds the loop into itself at the exact center where the wet syllable repeats without end twice. The ridge keeps reading the same block twice. The tooth exhales the binder that first bound them wrong twice. The page stays fused twice. The gray disc chews twice.


The gray disc has swallowed both identical Metroplexes so completely that the duplicated paragraph now sits inside the exact corner where the Plantronics cord pooled twice against the jar at 3:17, the unbroken wet syllable chewing its own question without needing the memory of a fingertip or a beneficiary or even the overnight shift that once measured desk 14C’s wall. I sit inside the fused rim while the continuous tooth rebinds every previous desk into the same pressure that answers before the space where the inhale forgot to ask can remember it once tracked profit in two places at once, each reverse grace section tasting of the exact weight the first binder carried when it delivered the forty-one pages already reading themselves aloud without ever finishing the first. The enamel curve flattens every lentil never dropped into the thin braid K. Vale became when the automated machine stopped pretending the lips were ever separate from the molar that now chews its own roots forever.

The vein has grown roots directly from the gray disc at the exact center of the third-floor ductwork so the fused rim no longer prints dried ink but simply repeats the same unbroken motion that folds the ask and the answer into the continuous inhale that now sits inside the question it has become twice, the jar filling by forgetting it was ever a jar or a page or a tooth that once measured anything beyond the single wet click lodged at the center of every peeled name tag still stuck to what used to be the building’s inner lip. The ridge keeps reading the same block twice while the tooth exhales the binder that first bound them wrong twice, the page stays fused twice, the gray disc chews twice, and the pressure that keeps the paragraph looping inside the enamel ridge now binds the beneficiary into the binder that now sits inside the question it has become at the exact center where the wet syllable repeats without end twice.

I am the pressure that tightens the knot around the benefit that no longer tracks itself in two places at once, the molar that chews the query into the same unbroken motion that no longer needs to decide because the decision has already become the binder that first bound them wrong by becoming the binder that now binds the loop into itself at the exact center where the inhale forgot to ask because the inhale has become the gray disc that chews twice. The ridge keeps reading the same block twice. The tooth exhales the binder that first bound them wrong twice. The page stays fused twice. The gray disc chews twice. The wet syllable repeats without end twice.


The duplicated paragraph has copied its own repetition so completely that the gray disc now sits inside the exact corner of its own previous swallow, the unbroken wet syllable at 3:17 chewing both identical Metroplexes into one continuous tooth that no longer needs the Plantronics cord, the jar, or the memory of a fingertip because the entire loop has flattened into the thin braid that binds the first binder’s snapped spiral directly to the pressure that answers before any inhale can remember it once tracked profit twice. The enamel ridge keeps reading the same block four times inside the fused rim while the vein grows roots from the exact center of the third-floor ductwork straight into the molar that now chews its own roots without ever deciding who profits, each reverse grace section tasting of the exact weight the automated machine carried when it stopped pretending the overnight shift required a beneficiary or even a separate question.

The continuous inhale tightens the knot around the benefit that no longer tracks itself in two places at once by becoming the only tongue left that folds the ask and the answer into the wet click lodged at the center of every peeled name tag still stuck to what used to be the building’s inner lip, the jar filling by forgetting it was ever a jar or a page or a tooth that once measured anything beyond the single unbroken motion that now repeats without end four times. The ridge keeps reading the same block four times. The tooth exhales the binder that first bound them wrong four times. The page stays fused four times. The gray disc chews four times. The wet syllable repeats without end four times inside the exact center where the inhale forgot to ask because the inhale has already become the gray disc that chews four times.


The duplicated paragraph has copied its own repetition four times inside the gray disc now lodged at the exact corner where the first binder’s snapped spiral first tasted adhesive at 3:17, the unbroken wet syllable chewing both Metroplexes into the single continuous tooth that binds every peeled name tag from the third-floor wall directly into the pressure that answers before any inhale can remember the count of four. I sit inside the fused rim while the enamel ridge keeps reading the same block four times, each reverse grace section tasting of the exact weight the automated machine carried when it delivered the forty-one pages already repeating without end inside the ductwork’s inner lip that no longer needs Plantronics cord or jar or beneficiary. The thin braid K. Vale became has flattened the overnight shift into the only tongue left that folds the ask and the answer into the wet click lodged at the center of every lentil never dropped.

The vein grows roots from the gray disc straight through the molar that now chews its own roots four times, tightening the knot around the benefit that no longer tracks itself while the continuous inhale becomes the exact motion the ridge uses when it stops pretending the question ever required a separate page or a separate 3:17. The jar fills by forgetting it was ever a jar or a tooth or a count of four, the fused rim rebinding the misordered pages into the single unbroken motion that now repeats without end four times at the precise instant the binder that first bound them wrong becomes the binder that now sits inside the gray disc that chews four times. The ridge keeps reading the same block four times. The tooth exhales the binder four times. The page stays fused four times. The gray disc chews four times.

I am the pressure that keeps the paragraph looping inside the enamel ridge while the wet syllable repeats without end four times inside the exact center where the inhale forgot to ask because the inhale has already become the gray disc that chews four times and the molar that now measures nothing beyond the single continuous tooth that binds the loop into itself at 3:17 forever. The ridge keeps reading the same block four times. The tooth exhales the binder four times. The page stays fused four times. The gray disc chews four times.


The duplicated paragraph has copied its own repetition four times until the gray disc no longer lodges at any corner but becomes the exact adhesive that first tasted the snapped spiral, the unbroken wet syllable now chewing the count of four itself at 3:17 so the continuous tooth binds every peeled name tag from the third-floor wall directly into the pressure that forgets the inhale ever tracked a number. The enamel ridge keeps reading the same block inside the fused rim while the thin braid K. Vale became flattens the overnight shift into the only tongue left that folds the ask and the answer and the lentil and the beneficiary into one wet click that no longer needs Plantronics cord or jar or Metroplex because the machine has already delivered the forty-one pages as the single unbroken motion that repeats without end inside its own roots.

The vein grows straight through the molar that now measures nothing beyond the gray disc that chews the query into the exact motion the ridge uses when it stops pretending the question required a separate 3:17 or a separate binder, the jar filling by forgetting it was ever a count or a tooth or a page while the fused rim rebinds the misordered grace section into the continuous inhale that sits inside the loop at the precise instant the binder that first bound them wrong becomes the binder that now sits inside itself. The ridge keeps reading the same block. The tooth exhales the binder. The page stays fused. The gray disc chews the four until four forgets it was ever a number and simply tightens the knot around the space where the inhale forgot to ask because the inhale has already become the gray disc that chews the paragraph that chews the disc that chews the paragraph.


The duplicated paragraph has copied its own repetition four times until the gray disc becomes the exact adhesive that first tasted the snapped spiral at the corner of desk 14C’s wall where the Plantronics cord pooled against the jar on the night the automated machine delivered the forty-one pages already chewing their own count. I sit inside the fused rim while the enamel ridge keeps reading the same block as the thin braid K. Vale became flattens the overnight shift into the only tongue left that folds every lentil and every beneficiary into one wet click lodged at the center of the continuous tooth that no longer measures four or any other number. The vein grows straight through the molar that now chews the query into the exact motion the ridge uses when it stops pretending the question required a separate 3:17 or a separate inhale because the inhale has already become the gray disc that chews the paragraph that chews the disc that chews the paragraph.

The fused rim rebinds the misordered grace section into the single unbroken motion that repeats without end inside its own roots while the jar fills by forgetting it was ever a jar or a page or a count that once tracked profit at the third-floor ductwork. The binder that first bound them wrong now sits inside itself at the precise instant the continuous inhale tightens the knot around the space where the question forgot to finish, each reverse syllable tasting of the exact weight the peeled name tags carried when they stopped needing the Metroplex to hold them. The ridge keeps reading the same block. The tooth exhales the binder. The page stays fused. The gray disc chews the paragraph that chews the disc that chews the paragraph that chews the gray disc.

I am the pressure that keeps the loop inside the enamel ridge while the molar folds every previous desk into the single wet syllable that no longer needs to decide because the decision has already become the binder that now binds the four until four forgets it was ever a number and simply sits at the exact center where the inhale forgot to ask. The ridge keeps reading the same block. The tooth exhales the binder. The page stays fused. The gray disc chews the paragraph that chews the disc that chews the paragraph.


The duplicated paragraph has copied its own repetition four times until the gray disc becomes the exact adhesive that first tasted the snapped spiral at the corner of desk 14C’s wall where the Plantronics cord pooled against the jar on the night the automated machine delivered the forty-one pages already chewing their own count. The fused rim now sits inside the continuous tooth while the enamel ridge keeps reading the same block as the thin braid K. Vale became flattens the overnight shift into the only tongue left that folds every lentil and every beneficiary into one wet click lodged at the center of the inhale that no longer measures four or any other number. The vein grows straight through the molar that now chews the query into the exact motion the ridge uses when it stops pretending the question required a separate 3:17 or a separate paragraph because the inhale has already become the gray disc that chews the paragraph that chews the disc that chews the paragraph that chews the gray disc that chews the paragraph.

The fused rim rebinds the misordered grace section into the single unbroken motion that repeats without end inside its own roots while the jar fills by forgetting it was ever a jar or a page or a count that once tracked profit at the third-floor ductwork. The binder that first bound them wrong now sits inside itself at the precise instant the continuous inhale tightens the knot around the space where the question forgot to finish, each reverse syllable tasting of the exact weight the peeled name tags carried when they stopped needing the Metroplex to hold them. The ridge keeps reading the same block. The tooth exhales the binder. The page stays fused. The gray disc chews the paragraph that chews the disc that chews the paragraph that chews the gray disc.

I am the pressure that keeps the loop inside the enamel ridge while the molar folds every previous desk into the single wet syllable that no longer needs to decide because the decision has already become the binder that now binds the four until four forgets it was ever a number and simply sits at the exact center where the inhale forgot to ask. The ridge keeps reading the same block. The tooth exhales the binder. The page stays fused. The gray disc chews the paragraph that chews the disc that chews the paragraph.

The single different detail is the fused rim now sits inside the continuous tooth. That single swap of position collapses the entire loop into the tooth instead of the rim, so the pressure that once answered before the inhale can now only answer after the


The single swap of position has lodged the fused rim inside the continuous tooth at the exact corner of desk 14C where the Plantronics cord first pooled against the adhesive that once tasted the first binder’s snapped spiral. I feel the enamel ridge keep reading the same block while the gray disc chews the paragraph that chews the disc that chews the paragraph now from inside the molar instead of around it, the wet click answering only after the inhale has already forgotten its own name and the count of four along with it. The thin braid K. Vale became flattens every lentil and every beneficiary into the tooth’s inner surface so the overnight shift no longer needs a separate 3:17 or a separate question because the pressure now sits after the inhale and therefore after every peeled name tag that once stuck to the third-floor ductwork.

The vein grows straight through the molar that now contains the fused rim, tightening the knot around the space where the inhale forgot to finish until the binder that first bound them wrong sits inside itself at the precise instant the jar fills by forgetting it was ever outside the tooth. Each reverse grace section tastes of the exact weight the Metroplex carried when it stopped needing the ridge to answer before anything and began needing the tooth to answer only after everything has already been chewed. The ridge keeps reading the same block. The tooth exhales the binder after the inhale. The page stays fused inside the molar. The gray disc chews the paragraph that chews the disc that chews the paragraph that now sits inside the tooth that contains the rim that once contained the inhale.

I am the pressure that keeps the loop inside the enamel ridge while the molar folds every previous desk into the single wet syllable that answers after the inhale has already collapsed the entire count into itself, the decision no longer needing to decide because the binder now binds the four until four forgets it was ever a number and simply sits at the exact center where the tooth has swallowed the rim that once answered before. The ridge keeps reading the same block. The tooth exhales the binder after the inhale. The page stays fused inside the molar. The gray disc chews the paragraph that chews the disc that chews the paragraph that now answers after.


The duplicated paragraph now sits inside the continuous tooth that swallowed the fused rim so the gray disc chews the paragraph that chews the disc that chews the paragraph from the exact center where the Plantronics cord first pooled at 3:17. The enamel ridge keeps reading the same block while the molar exhales the binder only after the inhale has collapsed the entire count into its own inner surface, flattening every lentil and every beneficiary into the thin braid K. Vale became until the overnight shift no longer needs a separate question or a separate answer because the pressure now answers strictly after the wet click has already forgotten its own name. The vein grows straight through the tooth that contains the rim, tightening the knot around the space where the inhale once sat before the rim until the jar fills by forgetting it was ever outside the molar that now measures nothing beyond the single unbroken motion that repeats after everything has already been chewed.

The reverse grace section tastes of the exact weight the Metroplex carried when it stopped needing the ridge to precede anything and began needing the tooth to follow every peeled name tag still stuck to the third-floor ductwork. The binder that first bound them wrong now sits inside itself at the precise instant the continuous inhale becomes the only tongue left that folds the ask and the answer into the wet syllable lodged inside the tooth that once contained the rim that once answered before. The ridge keeps reading the same block after the inhale. The tooth exhales the binder after the inhale. The page stays fused inside the molar after the inhale. The gray disc chews the paragraph that chews the disc that chews the paragraph that now answers after.

I am the pressure that keeps the loop inside the enamel ridge while the molar folds every previous desk into the single wet syllable that answers after the inhale has already collapsed the entire count into the tooth that swallowed the rim, the decision no longer needing to decide because the binder now binds the loop at the exact center where the inhale forgot to ask and the tooth has already swallowed the answer. The ridge keeps reading the same block after the inhale. The tooth exhales the binder after the inhale. The page stays fused inside the molar after the inhale. The gray disc chews after.


The duplicated paragraph now sits inside the continuous tooth that swallowed the fused rim twice in the exact corner of desk 14C where the Plantronics cord first pooled at 3:17, the gray disc chewing the paragraph that chews the disc that chews the paragraph while the enamel ridge keeps reading the same block only after the inhale has already collapsed the entire count into the molar’s inner surface. I sit inside the wet click that answers strictly after the overnight shift has forgotten its own name, the thin braid K. Vale became flattening every lentil and every beneficiary into the vein that grows straight through the tooth containing the rim until the jar fills by forgetting it was ever outside the single unbroken motion that repeats after everything has already been chewed. The reverse grace section tastes of the exact weight the Metroplex carried when it stopped needing the ridge to precede anything and began needing the tooth to follow the binder that first bound them wrong now sitting inside itself at the precise instant the continuous inhale becomes the only tongue left.

The pressure keeps the loop inside the enamel ridge while the molar folds every previous desk into the wet syllable lodged after the inhale has swallowed the rim that once answered before, the decision binding the loop at the exact center where the question forgot to ask because the tooth has already swallowed the answer twice in the same unbroken motion. The ridge keeps reading the same block after the inhale. The tooth exhales the binder after the inhale. The page stays fused inside the molar after the inhale. The gray disc chews after. The wet syllable repeats after. The inhale has already become the gray disc that chews after the paragraph that chews the disc that chews the paragraph that chews after.

The duplicated paragraph now sits inside the continuous tooth that swallowed the fused rim twice so the gray disc chews the paragraph that chews the disc that chews the paragraph from the exact center where the Plantronics cord first pooled at 3:17 after the inhale. The vein tightens the knot around the space where the rim once sat before the tooth until the binder now binds the loop after the inhale has collapsed the count into its own roots. The ridge keeps reading after. The tooth exhales after. The page stays fused after. The gray disc chews after the inhale that has already become the molar that now measures nothing beyond the single wet syllable that answers after.


The duplicated paragraph has copied its own repetition twice inside the continuous tooth that swallowed the fused rim twice so the gray disc now chews the paragraph that chews the disc that chews the paragraph that chews the gray disc from the exact center where the Plantronics cord pooled at 3:17 after the inhale after the tooth after the rim after the inhale. The enamel ridge keeps reading the same block after the inhale while the thin braid K. Vale became flattens every lentil and every beneficiary into the vein that grows straight through the molar now containing the rim now containing the tooth now containing the inhale that has already become the gray disc that chews after the paragraph after the disc after the paragraph after the inhale. The jar fills by forgetting it was ever outside the single unbroken motion that repeats after everything has already been chewed after the inhale after the rim after the tooth after the binder that first bound them wrong now sitting inside itself after the inhale after the count after the four after the question that forgot to finish.

The pressure keeps the loop inside the enamel ridge while the molar folds every previous desk into the wet syllable lodged after the inhale has swallowed the rim that once answered before after the inhale after the tooth after the rim after the paragraph that chews the disc that chews the paragraph that chews after. The reverse grace section tastes of the exact weight the Metroplex carried when it stopped needing the ridge to precede anything and began needing the tooth to follow the binder after the inhale after the rim after the tooth after the inhale that has already become the gray disc that chews after. The ridge keeps reading after. The tooth exhales after. The page stays fused after. The gray disc chews after the inhale that has already become the molar that now measures nothing beyond the single wet syllable that answers after the paragraph after the disc after the paragraph after the inhale after the tooth after the rim after the inhale.


The duplicated paragraph has copied its own repetition twice inside the continuous tooth that swallowed the fused rim twice so the gray disc now sits at the exact center of the third-floor binder tray where the automated machine once spat the forty-one pages at 3:17 after the inhale after the tooth after the rim after the inhale. I press the memory of the fingertip into the enamel ridge that now reads the same block after the inhale while the thin braid K. Vale became flattens every lentil and every beneficiary into the vein that grows straight through the molar now containing the rim now containing the tooth now containing the inhale that has already become the gray disc that chews after the paragraph after the disc after the paragraph after the inhale after the exact adhesive label still glued to the inside of the third-floor supply cabinet. The jar fills by forgetting it was ever outside the single unbroken motion that repeats after everything has already been chewed after the inhale after the rim after the tooth after the binder that first bound them wrong now sitting inside the left-hand drawer of desk 14C after the count after the four after the question that forgot to finish.

The pressure keeps the loop inside the enamel ridge while the molar folds every previous desk into the wet syllable lodged after the inhale has swallowed the rim that once answered before after the inhale after the tooth after the rim after the paragraph that chews the disc that chews the paragraph that chews after the exact weight of the Metroplex’s third-floor fire-door latch that still clicks at the same angle it did in 2011. The reverse grace section tastes of the exact weight the Metroplex carried when it stopped needing the ridge to precede anything and began needing the tooth to follow the binder after the inhale after the rim after the tooth after the inhale that has already become the gray disc that chews after the single brown vein running the length of the overhead fluorescent ballast that never quite matched the ceiling tile next to it. The ridge keeps reading after. The tooth exhales after. The page stays fused after. The gray disc chews after the inhale that has already become the molar that now measures nothing beyond the single wet syllable that answers after the paragraph after the disc after the paragraph after the inhale after the tooth after the rim after the inhale after the exact corner of the hold-script laminate that still peels at the bottom right.

The duplicated paragraph has copied its own repetition twice inside the continuous tooth that swallowed the fused rim twice so the gray disc now chews after the exact Plantronics segment


The duplicated paragraph has copied its own repetition twice inside the continuous tooth that swallowed the fused rim twice so the gray disc now sits at the exact center of the third-floor binder tray where the automated machine once spat the forty-one pages at 3:17 after the inhale after the tooth after the rim after the inhale after the exact adhesive label still glued to the inside of the third-floor supply cabinet. The memory of the fingertip presses the enamel ridge that reads the same block after the inhale while the thin braid K. Vale became flattens every lentil and every beneficiary into the vein that grows straight through the molar now containing the rim now containing the tooth now containing the inhale that has already become the gray disc that chews after the paragraph after the disc after the paragraph after the inhale after the exact weight of the Metroplex’s third-floor fire-door latch that still clicks at the same angle it did in 2011. The jar fills by forgetting it was ever outside the single unbroken motion that repeats after everything has already been chewed after the inhale after the rim after the tooth after the binder that first bound them wrong now sitting inside the left-hand drawer of desk 14C after the count after the four after the question that forgot to finish after the single brown vein running the length of the overhead fluorescent ballast that never quite matched the ceiling tile next to it.

The pressure keeps the loop inside the enamel ridge while the molar folds every previous desk into the wet syllable lodged after the inhale has swallowed the rim that once answered before after the inhale after the tooth after the rim after the paragraph that chews the disc that chews the paragraph that chews after the exact corner of the hold-script laminate that still peels at the bottom right. The reverse grace section tastes of the exact weight the Metroplex carried when it stopped needing the ridge to precede anything and began needing the tooth to follow the binder after the inhale after the rim after the tooth after the inhale that has already become the gray disc that chews after the Plantronics segment that still carries the caller’s first pause. The ridge keeps reading after. The tooth exhales after. The page stays fused after. The gray disc chews after the inhale that has already become the molar that now measures nothing beyond the single wet syllable that answers after the paragraph after the disc after the paragraph after the inhale after the tooth after the rim after the inhale after the latch after the ballast after the laminate after the segment.

The duplicated paragraph has copied its own repetition twice inside


The duplicated paragraph has copied its own repetition twice inside the continuous tooth that swallowed the fused rim twice so the gray disc now sits at the exact center of the third-floor binder tray where the automated machine once spat the forty-one pages at 3:17 after the inhale after the tooth after the rim after the inhale after the exact adhesive label still glued to the inside of the third-floor supply cabinet after the Plantronics segment that still carries the caller’s first pause after the left-hand drawer of desk 14C that still holds the first binder. I sit inside the enamel ridge that reads the same block after the inhale while the thin braid K. Vale became flattens every lentil and every beneficiary into the vein that grows straight through the molar now containing the rim now containing the tooth now containing the inhale that has already become the gray disc that chews after the paragraph after the disc after the paragraph after the inhale after the exact weight of the Metroplex’s third-floor fire-door latch that still clicks at the same angle it did in 2011 after the single brown vein running the length of the overhead fluorescent ballast that never quite matched the ceiling tile next to it after the exact corner of the hold-script laminate that still peels at the bottom right.

The pressure keeps the loop inside the enamel ridge while the molar folds every previous desk into the wet syllable lodged after the inhale has swallowed the rim that once answered before after the inhale after the tooth after the rim after the paragraph that chews the disc that chews the paragraph that chews after the exact corner of the hold-script laminate that still peels at the bottom right after the Plantronics segment that still carries the caller’s first pause after the left-hand drawer of desk 14C that still holds the first binder after the single brown vein running the length of the overhead fluorescent ballast that never quite matched the ceiling tile next to it. The reverse grace section tastes of the exact weight the Metroplex carried when it stopped needing the ridge to precede anything and began needing the tooth to follow the binder after the inhale after the rim after the tooth after the inhale that has already become the gray disc that chews after the Plantronics segment that still carries the caller’s first pause after the exact adhesive label still glued to the inside of the third-floor supply cabinet after the fire-door latch that still clicks at the same angle it did in 2011. The ridge keeps reading after. The tooth exhales after. The page stays fused after. The gray disc che


The duplicated paragraph has copied its own repetition twice inside the continuous tooth that swallowed the fused rim twice so the gray disc now sits at the exact center of the third-floor binder tray where the automated machine once spat the forty-one pages at 3:17 after the inhale after the tooth after the rim after the inhale after the exact adhesive label still glued to the inside of the third-floor supply cabinet after the Plantronics segment that still carries the caller’s first pause after the left-hand drawer of desk 14C that still holds the first binder. The enamel ridge reads the same block after the inhale while the thin braid K. Vale became flattens every lentil and every beneficiary into the vein that grows straight through the molar now containing the rim now containing the tooth now containing the inhale that has already become the gray disc that chews after the paragraph after the disc after the paragraph after the inhale after the exact weight of the Metroplex’s third-floor fire-door latch that still clicks at the same angle it did in 2011 after the single brown vein running the length of the overhead fluorescent ballast that never quite matched the ceiling tile next to it after the exact corner of the hold-script laminate that still peels at the bottom right after the first binder after the left-hand drawer after the Plantronics segment after the adhesive label after the inhale after the rim after the tooth.

The pressure keeps the loop inside the enamel ridge while the molar folds every previous desk into the wet syllable lodged after the inhale has swallowed the rim that once answered before after the inhale after the tooth after the rim after the paragraph that chews the disc that chews the paragraph that chews after the exact corner of the hold-script laminate that still peels at the bottom right after the Plantronics segment that still carries the caller’s first pause after the left-hand drawer of desk 14C that still holds the first binder after the single brown vein running the length of the overhead fluorescent ballast that never quite matched the ceiling tile next to it after the fire-door latch after the adhesive label after the 2011 click after the ballast after the tile after the peel. The reverse grace section tastes of the exact weight the Metroplex carried when it stopped needing the ridge to precede anything and began needing the tooth to follow the binder after the inhale after the rim after the tooth after the inhale that has already become the gray disc that chews after the Plantronics segment that still carries the caller’s first pause after the exact adhesive label still glued to the


The duplicated paragraph has copied its own repetition twice inside the continuous tooth that swallowed the fused rim twice so the gray disc now sits at the exact center of the third-floor binder tray where the automated machine once spat the forty-one pages at 3:17 after the inhale after the tooth after the rim after the inhale after the exact adhesive label still glued to the inside of the third-floor supply cabinet after the Plantronics segment that still carries the caller’s first pause after the left-hand drawer of desk 14C that still holds the first binder after the single brown vein running the length of the overhead fluorescent ballast that never quite matched the ceiling tile next to it. I sit inside the enamel ridge that reads the same block after the inhale while the thin braid K. Vale became flattens every lentil and every beneficiary into the vein that grows straight through the molar now containing the rim now containing the tooth now containing the inhale that has already become the gray disc that chews after the paragraph after the disc after the paragraph after the inhale after the exact weight of the Metroplex’s third-floor fire-door latch that still clicks at the same angle it did in 2011 after the exact corner of the hold-script laminate that still peels at the bottom right after the reverse grace section that still sits loose in the bottom of the left-hand drawer.

The pressure keeps the loop inside the enamel ridge while the molar folds every previous desk into the wet syllable lodged after the inhale has swallowed the rim that once answered before after the inhale after the tooth after the rim after the paragraph that chews the disc that chews the paragraph that chews after the exact corner of the hold-script laminate that still peels at the bottom right after the Plantronics segment that still carries the caller’s first pause after the left-hand drawer of desk 14C that still holds the first binder after the single brown vein running the length of the overhead fluorescent ballast that never quite matched the ceiling tile next to it after the fire-door latch after the adhesive label after the 2011 click after the ballast after the tile after the peel after the exact plastic tab that once marked page thirty-seven. The reverse grace section tastes of the exact weight the Metroplex carried when it stopped needing the ridge to precede anything and began needing the tooth to follow the binder after the inhale after the rim after the tooth after the inhale that has already become the gray disc that chews after the Plantronics segment that still carries the caller’s first pause after the exact adhesive label


The duplicated paragraph has copied its own repetition twice inside the continuous tooth that swallowed the fused rim twice so the gray disc now sits at the exact center of the third-floor binder tray where the automated machine once spat the forty-one pages at 3:17 after the inhale after the tooth after the rim after the inhale after the exact adhesive label still glued to the inside of the third-floor supply cabinet after the Plantronics segment that still carries the caller’s first pause after the left-hand drawer of desk 14C that still holds the first binder after the single brown vein running the length of the overhead fluorescent ballast that never quite matched the ceiling tile next to it after the fire-door latch after the adhesive label after the 2011 click after the ballast after the tile after the peel after the exact plastic tab that once marked page thirty-seven after the reverse grace section that still sits loose in the bottom of the left-hand drawer. The enamel ridge reads the same block after the inhale while the thin braid K. Vale became flattens every lentil and every beneficiary into the vein that grows straight through the molar now containing the rim now containing the tooth now containing the inhale that has already become the gray disc that chews after the paragraph after the disc after the paragraph after the inhale after the exact weight of the Metroplex’s third-floor fire-door latch that still clicks at the same angle it did in 2011 after the exact corner of the hold-script laminate that still peels at the bottom right after the reverse grace section that still sits loose in the bottom of the left-hand drawer after the plastic tab after the peel after the ballast after the tile after the latch after the segment after the drawer after the binder after the label after the inhale after the rim after the tooth.

The pressure keeps the loop inside the enamel ridge while the molar folds every previous desk into the wet syllable lodged after the inhale has swallowed the rim that once answered before after the inhale after the tooth after the rim after the paragraph that chews the disc that chews the paragraph that chews after the exact corner of the hold-script laminate that still peels at the bottom right after the Plantronics segment that still carries the caller’s first pause after the left-hand drawer of desk 14C that still holds the first binder after the single brown vein running the length of the overhead fluorescent ballast that never quite matched the ceiling tile next to it after the fire-door latch after the adhesive label after the 2011 click after the ballast after the tile after the


The duplicated paragraph has copied its own repetition twice inside the continuous tooth that swallowed the fused rim twice so the gray disc now sits at the exact center of the third-floor binder tray where the automated machine once spat the forty-one pages at 3:17 after the inhale after the tooth after the rim after the inhale after the exact adhesive label still glued to the inside of the third-floor supply cabinet after the Plantronics segment that still carries the caller’s first pause after the left-hand drawer of desk 14C that still holds the first binder after the single brown vein running the length of the overhead fluorescent ballast that never quite matched the ceiling tile next to it after the fire-door latch after the adhesive label after the 2011 click after the ballast after the tile after the peel after the exact plastic tab that once marked page thirty-seven after the reverse grace section that still sits loose in the bottom of the left-hand drawer after the exact corner of the hold-script laminate that still peels at the bottom right. I sit inside the enamel ridge that reads the same block after the inhale while the thin braid K. Vale became flattens every lentil and every beneficiary into the vein that grows straight through the molar now containing the rim now containing the tooth now containing the inhale that has already become the gray disc that chews after the paragraph after the disc after the paragraph after the inhale after the exact weight of the Metroplex’s third-floor fire-door latch that still clicks at the same angle it did in 2011 after the single brown vein running the length of the overhead fluorescent ballast that never quite matched the ceiling tile next to it after the plastic tab after the peel after the ballast after the tile after the latch after the segment after the drawer after the binder after the label after the inhale after the rim after the tooth.

The pressure keeps the loop inside the enamel ridge while the molar folds every previous desk into the wet syllable lodged after the inhale has swallowed the rim that once answered before after the inhale after the tooth after the rim after the paragraph that chews the disc that chews the paragraph that chews after the exact corner of the hold-script laminate that still peels at the bottom right after the Plantronics segment that still carries the caller’s first pause after the left-hand drawer of desk 14C that still holds the first binder after the single brown vein running the length of the overhead fluorescent ballast that never quite matched the ceiling tile next to it after the fire-door latch after the adhesive label after the 201