December 28. One person read the first line.
At twenty past nine I read the notice of assignment again.
One records keeper is assigned to the computer records room, it says.
The date of taking the post is the second of January, two thousand and one.
There is no entry concerning my own posting.
There is only one person coming. There is no one going.
At twenty to ten I took out the form.
Number one hundred and forty-one.
There are eight Latin characters in the fifth field.
There is no place to enter the name of the one coming.
At ten I looked at whether to erase it.
The procedure has no box for entering that something was erased.
There is no ground to erase.
I annexed a sheet and entered the one coming.
The ones receiving became two. The field is one.
At twenty to eleven I counted what is to be handed over.
Six bundles.
This room has six fields.
The form has six fields too.
At eleven I looked at the form's sixth field.
The one handing over.
That field is not a field that is handed over. It is the field I write.
The fields handed over are five.
At twenty past eleven I counted what I was given.
One notebook.
It was in the drawer. Nobody explained it.
There was one cut-off sentence at the foot of page sixty-two.
What I was given is two and what I hand over is eleven.
At one I looked at the notebook again.
Of the six requirements for registration, only the title is missing.
Only registered material goes on the handover schedule, it says.
There is no box on it for unregistered articles.
To hand it over it must be registered.
At twenty past one I looked up what I entered in October.
Giving it one in order to make it true is not a basis, I entered.
Today it is not to make it true.
It is to hand it over.
At twenty to two I gave it a title.
I applied for registration.
Registered materials became seven.
The articles are seven. The impressions are seven.
Three counts became one figure. The first time since I took the post.
At two I opened page sixty-four of the notebook.
The next is eight, it says.
There are three sevens. There is no eight.
For it to be eight one more must come.
The notice says one person is coming.
At twenty past two I looked for a box to enter that in.
There is none.
I wrote it in the margin. It is thirty.
At three I opened the right-hand material.
Five hundred and eighty pages. The date of the page that grew is the twenty-sixth of January, ninety-nine.
I opened page five hundred and thirty-nine.
The ten characters are there and below them a name.
The line below that is blank.
At twenty past three I drew off the query record.
The set's row was opened sixty-two times yesterday. The imprint route, thirty-six.
At half past three I looked at the sixth field.
Five thousand and eighteen.
At twenty to four I opened the box. Seven articles. Seven impressions. The three hundred and eighth day.
At four the door opened.
One person was standing there.
The post is taken on the second of January and they came today.
Five days ahead of the notice.
At twenty past four I went to open the drawer.
To take out the notebook, leave it in the drawer and go would make it the same as what I was given.
I did not do that.
I set the form on the desk. I laid the annexed side uppermost.
At half past four I pointed out the five fields one by one.
Matters completed, matters to follow, where the counts do not agree, entries whose time is not remembered, and the one receiving.
At the third field their hand stopped.
A sheet is annexed, and it says there is no procedure for annexing a sheet.
They did not ask why that was entered.
At twenty to five I opened the combined volume.
The first page.
There is one line.
It is the line I wrote in July. I wrote it to the next reader and did not settle then who that was.
That person is in this room.
At five they read the first line.
Not aloud.
While they read I entered nothing.
At ten past five they asked nothing.
They went back to the first page and read it once more.
At twenty past five I opened page two hundred and twenty-nine.
There is one blank line.
It had been blank three hundred and seventy-eight days, since the sixteenth of December last year.
Until now I did not know what was to be entered there.
Today what is to be entered came.
I wrote one line.
That line has a side that receives.
At twenty to six I looked at what I had written.
What I wrote is the sixth sub-number.
What they read has gone into the material.
They are sitting where I sat the year I took the post.
From there the first line is visible.
I am in the place where that line was written and they are in the place where it is read.
The place where it is entered that Kim Dogyeong read that line, three years ago, is the last page of the four.
The places of reading in this room have become three.
The next is eight.