November 17. The six went up as one set.
At twenty past nine I queried the outcome.
The sub-numbers have been amended to six, it says.
Six registered materials. Nothing pending.
What was applied for on the twenty-fourth of August was processed eighty-five days later.
At twenty to ten I opened the schedule.
The set is there as one row.
There is no name in the compiler field.
There are eight characters, in Latin letters.
At ten I looked for the procedure.
The value displayed in the schedule is the account notation of whoever entered that field, it says.
The schedule does not show what is written in the field. It shows the side that filled it.
At twenty past ten I looked at the imprint field.
Eight Latin characters there too.
I filled that field in August. I filled the compiler field in April.
One person filled both fields, so both notations are the same.
At twenty to eleven I set the eight characters against each other one by one.
All eight agree.
The procedure has a case where the compiler and the imprint carry the same notation. In that case the notation is shown once only, it says.
In the schedule the two fields have become one row.
At ten past eleven I tried to see whether those eight characters were a person or an imprint.
The schedule has no field for the kind.
An account notation attaches to a person and it attaches to a registering body. The notation alone does not divide them.
At twenty past eleven I opened the query record.
I drew off the notation that has been opening the set's row.
Eight Latin characters.
I set them against the schedule's eight one by one. They are the same.
Whether the same notation is one or two is not recorded. I entered that in August.
At one I opened the form I made yesterday.
The fifth field.
Eight Latin characters.
Three places are the same. The compiler, the imprint and the one receiving.
At twenty past one I counted the pages.
The six sub-numbers come to one thousand four hundred and four.
Measured, the combined volume is one thousand four hundred and six.
Up to yesterday what did not agree was one.
At two I found where it diverges.
The end of the sixth sub-number.
Two pages are attached with no number entered.
Both are blank.
At ten past two I read the procedure for the sixth sub-number.
Registered material declares its page count, it says.
If the declared page count changes, an application for amendment is made, it says.
My log grows by one page a day.
There is no procedure for applying every day.
At a quarter past two I looked at what I had written today.
What I wrote today is inside the registered material.
Until now I wrote and afterwards it became material. From today writing is material.
There is no time in between.
At twenty past two I opened the list of persons entering.
Five rows.
The single representative has been recalculated.
Two rows carry a name. The compiler row and the Kim Dogyeong row.
The sort is by date of last entry, and the compiler row's date being blank, the compiler row is first.
The representative has been settled as the compiler.
In the schedule that place is eight Latin characters.
At three I looked for a box to enter that in.
There is none.
I wrote it in the margin. November's first margin entry. It is twenty-two.
Kim Dogyeong came down from the first row because of a rule, and the rule puts the side with no date of entry in front.
There being no date of entry is not because no entry was made. The compiler field has no place for a date.
At twenty to four the notice of registration came.
The kind of material is entered as combined, six items.
In the title box is the name I gave it in April.
At four I opened the box.
Seven articles. Seven impressions. The two hundred and sixty-seventh day.
At ten past four I looked at the sixth field.
Three thousand nine hundred and fifty-eight.
At twenty past four I drew off the query record. The set's row was opened forty-one times yesterday. The imprint route, twenty-three.
At half past four I opened the right-hand material.
Five hundred and thirty-nine pages.
The date of the page that grew is the sixteenth of December, ninety-eight.
My log is also on its five hundred and thirty-ninth page today.
At ten to five I opened that page.
There is one line.
Ten characters.
We are watching a little further.
At ten past five I printed it and set it against the last pages of the four.
They are the same.
Theirs is a pressed impression and this is characters. Every stroke is there.
In this room those ten characters have never had their strokes.
At half past five I opened page two hundred and twenty-nine.
There is one blank line.
It has been so since last December.
At twenty to six I looked at that page of the right-hand material again.
Below the ten characters one line is blank.
The four have nothing below theirs. The paper ends.
Here it does not end.
There is a place for one line to go.