June 11. My hand has become the hand of the one before me.
At ten past nine I opened the copy of the reply.
It went out on the first. Eleven days have passed.
In the field for the result of confirmation I entered that it cannot be confirmed from the colophon.
There being no field for confirmation not being possible, I entered it in the margin.
Nothing at all has come from head office.
At twenty past nine I took out the notebook of the one before me.
I meant to take it out last month after seeing hand B's strokes, and left it.
It is a hand that joins the final consonants on. The same shape as hand B of March seventy-eight.
I leafed through the notebook from the beginning.
At twenty to ten I laid the notebook and the sixth sub-number side by side.
The notebook comes first and the log after. Both are the hand of the one before me.
The same dates are in both.
I picked one day and matched them. The seventeenth of May last year.
That day's entry in the notebook and that day's entry in the log agree down to the character count.
At ten I picked another day. The ninth of July last year.
The two agree.
The twenty-third of September last year agrees too. The sixteenth of the twelfth month agrees.
The notebook and the log are the same thing written twice.
At half past ten I looked at the notebook's margin.
Beside the date there is a small mark. The shape of a hook.
There is the same mark on the log side too.
It is there only on the days that were matched.
There are days that were not matched. Eleven days, from the ninth to the nineteenth of April last year.
The same eleven days in which the third field's line was first written.
At eleven I looked for the procedure.
There is no procedure to enter the same thing in two places.
Nor is there a procedure to enter it and then match them.
It is something the one before me did alone.
I entered it in the margin. Eighty-four.
At twenty past eleven I leafed through my own log from the beginning.
The second of January is the first page.
In January I entered things once.
In February once as well.
From the seventh of March it is entered twice.
At one I took out my notebook.
The notebook I began after coming to this room.
The seventh of March is in it. It is the same as that day in the log. The character count is the same.
There is a hook in the margin.
It is a hook I drew.
I have no memory of when I began drawing it.
At ten past one I matched every day that was written twice.
Ninety-six days from the seventh of March to today.
There are ninety-three hooks. On three days there is no hook.
Those three are the days the two sides diverged. The sixteenth of April, the twenty-second of May, and the first of June.
The sixteenth of April is the day the fax sent a page. The twenty-second of May is the day I first copied something out. The first of June is the day the reply went out.
At half past one I counted the unmarked days on the side of the one before me.
Besides the eleven days of April last year there are four more.
What was done on those four days is entered in the log. All four are days of copying out.
At twenty to two I opened the third field.
I wanted to ask whether writing twice is a thing done to catch divergence. There is nowhere to ask.
The first time I read the third field was the twenty-second of last month.
The time I began writing twice is three months ago.
I was doing as the procedure has it before I read the procedure.
At two I decided to count strokes.
I counted the characters with the final consonant joined on, per hundred characters. I counted by month.
January is four. February is nine. March is twenty-two.
April is thirty-one. May is thirty-eight.
The ten days of June are forty-one.
At twenty to three I counted the notebook of the one before me the same way.
Forty-three.
I counted hand B of March seventy-eight.
Forty-two.
The three fall within one range.
At three I looked for the reckoning that would tell them apart.
There is no field in the forms that divides a thing learned from a thing caught.
I saw that notebook every day, so I could enter that it was learned.
It rose in a month in which I did not see the notebook, so I cannot enter that it was learned.
In February I did not open the notebook once. In February it went from four to nine.
I entered it in the margin. Eighty-five.
At twenty to four I opened the box.
Seven articles. Seven marks. Day four hundred and seventy-three.
The sixth field is nine thousand eight hundred and thirty-three. The set's row was opened a hundred and thirty-eight times yesterday and the imprint route ninety-five.
The right-hand material is seven hundred and forty-five pages. The date of the added page is the tenth of the seventh month of ninety-nine. The third line of page five hundred and thirty-nine has been blank a hundred and sixty-five days. The original of the fifth bundle is a hundred and seventy-seven pages and has not grown for five hundred and forty-three days.
At four I was about to close the notebook and looked at the last page.
The last page of the notebook of the one before me. There is one line.
It is entered that the line was read as a handover last year. It was read that way after I came.
Below that line it is blank.
At twenty past four I opened the last page of my own notebook.
It is not the last page. Half of it is still left.
At twenty to five I entered today twice.
I entered it in the log and I entered it in the notebook.
I matched them. The character counts are the same.
I drew the hook.
And then I knew that I had never meant to draw it.