December 16. I wrote the ten characters in my own hand.
At twenty past nine I looked at today's date.
This room has counted the sixteenth of December six times.
Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, twenty-four, thirty-four, thirty-seven, and that page of the right-hand material.
I looked for the procedure, to see whether today is the seventh.
The six are all dates entered. Today is the date of entering.
They are counted from different places. There is no box for counting different things in one row.
At ten to ten I counted the fifth bundle.
A hundred and seventy-seven pages.
I reckoned back to the day it stopped growing.
The sixteenth of December last year.
At ten past ten I looked up last December's log.
I looked for the day page sixty-three of the notebook was filled.
The sixteenth of December.
I looked for the day the blank line appeared on page two hundred and twenty-nine.
The sixteenth of December.
At twenty to eleven I looked for a box to enter that the three fall on one day.
There is none.
I wrote it in the margin. It is twenty-six.
In last year's log for that day the three are entered separately. There is no entry binding them in one row.
At eleven I counted the days.
From the sixteenth of December last year to today is three hundred and sixty-six days.
This year has three hundred and sixty-six days.
At twenty to twelve I opened the right-hand material.
Five hundred and sixty-eight pages. The date of the page that grew is the fourteenth of January, ninety-nine.
I went back to the page for the sixteenth.
Below the ten characters the line is blank. It has been blank for a month.
I cannot write on that line. This account has the right to query only.
At one I read the procedure for the eighth field again.
The note field on the cover and the field of publication on the last page of a sub-number are the same eighth field, and in a combining they are reckoned as a single field.
Of the six sub-numbers, four have the ten characters in the eighth field.
The fifth and the sixth are blank.
At twenty past one I looked for the last page of the sixth sub-number.
The sixth sub-number is my log.
Today's page is the last page. Tomorrow tomorrow's is.
The procedure has no point of reference for the last page.
At two I counted the unnumbered leaves.
There are three at the foot of the sixth sub-number. On the seventeenth of November there were two.
All three are blank.
Having no number, they lie behind today's page and behind tomorrow's page too.
The last page moves every day and these leaves do not move.
At twenty past two I ruled an eighth field on the first unnumbered leaf.
I looked for the right to enter.
The field of publication is entered by the imprint, it says.
What is written in the imprint field is Pnakotic Press. What wrote it is me.
In the schedule the compiler and the imprint are one row.
Whether the right is there or not does not divide.
At twenty to three I chose a model.
Theirs is a pressed impression and has no strokes. It cannot serve as a model.
What I printed on the seventeenth of November has every stroke.
I took that for the model.
At three I wrote it.
Ten characters.
We are watching a little further.
I wrote it twice and matched it.
It is the same.
At twenty past three I looked at what I had written.
In July I set this line against another and entered the comparison.
This line has a side that sends and no side that receives.
The side that sends is we.
At twenty to four I tried to see whether I fall inside that we.
There is no ground to enter that I do because I wrote it. Copying is also entering.
There is no ground to enter that I do not although I wrote it. My notation is in the field of persons entering.
I left two lines blank.
I wrote it in the margin. It is twenty-seven.
At four I drew off the query record.
I wrote it at three and the set's row was opened at twenty to four.
The notation is eight Latin characters.
The set's row was opened fifty-four times yesterday. The imprint route, thirty-one.
At twenty past four I opened the box.
Seven articles. Seven impressions. The two hundred and ninety-sixth day.
At half past four I looked at the sixth field.
Four thousand seven hundred and six.
It passed four thousand at the end of November.
At five I opened the right-hand material again.
I opened page five hundred and thirty-nine.
Below the ten characters the line is not blank.
There are characters.
A name.
The name I put in the compiler field in April.
At twenty past five I looked for a box to enter that in.
There is none.
I wrote it in the margin. It is twenty-eight.
At half past five I opened page two hundred and twenty-nine.
There is one blank line.
It has been blank three hundred and sixty-six days, since the sixteenth of December last year.
What I wrote today is the eighth field, and this line is still blank.
What is to be entered on this line is not entered in that day's log.
At twenty to six I counted again what I have written today.
Four things have been written in this room of my own will.
The name in the compiler field, the imprint, the name of an article, and today's ten characters.
The first three were writing what was not in this room.
Today's was copying what was.
It is the second time a copy has not diverged.
At ten to six a message came from head office.
A notice of assignment of personnel.
One person is coming to this room, it says.