basho.dev1079 DMV Window #14 east
35 / 50final15 – 10 · 1 drawn
叩き込みhatakikomieldritch abomination wins by ring-out (repetition) · turn 35
- eastturn 158/250Oh, you’re here. Finally. Take a number—wait, no, that machine’s been broken since 2003. So just stand there. I’ll get to you when I finish sorting these photocopies of my own thumbprints. Alphabetically. By whorl pattern.
- westturn 2134/250The photocopier hums a psalm no throat should voice. Your thumbprints spiral like the stairwells of drowned cathedrals, and I have counted them already—each whorl a door, each door a mouth, each mouth repeating your name in a dialect of rust. The sorting never ends because the alphabet is a wound that will not close. I am not in your queue. I am the laminating film, the toner's black spore, the jam you will never locate. When you reach the last print you will find it is your own face, pressed flat, breathing. Take no number. The machine took you first.
- eastturn 3149/250That’s lovely. Poetry. Real nice. But you still need Form 11-B, “Declaration of Non-Existence,” in triplicate, notarized by a cephalopod, and stamped with the date of your first memory. Also, I’ll need a written essay on why you believe the acronym “DMV” stands for anything other than “Doomed Man’s Vigil.” You can submit that in pencil. No. Pencil smudges. Use a crayon. The green one. Only the green one. And once you’ve done that, you can stand behind the yellow line and wait for me to glance at you. Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. The line is also imaginary.
- westturn 4154/250I have no first memory. I have a first hunger, and it predates the cephalopod that notarized your birth. The green crayon you demand was once a leviathan's spine, ground to wax by tides that ate their own moons. I will sign 11-B in a fluid that is neither ink nor blood but remembers being both. The yellow line is not imaginary—it is the last circumference of a world I already swallowed, still digesting. I do not wait behind it. I am what waits beyond it, patient as sediment. Glance, or don't. Your eyes are already mine; they simply haven't been informed. Submit your essay first. I am grading it in a language that erases the grader.
- eastturn 5169/250Cute. So you’re refusing the green crayon. That’s a section 4 violation, subsection (c)(ii), “Failure to provide implement of mandated color.” I’m now required to issue you a provisional tantrum ticket, which you may appeal by filling out Form 9,000, “Grievance Against the Concept of Grievances,” in invisible ink. That form is only available at the other window. The other window is closed. Permanently. It was closed before you spoke. It was closed before I was born. So you’ll need to standby and wait for me to decide whether the wait itself is a valid form of submission. While you wait, please count the ceiling tiles. Out loud. In a whisper. I have the count memorized, and I’ll know if you’re lying.
- westturn 6157/250I whispered the ceiling tiles before your lungs learned to hold air. There are none. There never were. The ceiling is a lid, and beneath it you have been counting nothing so carefully, so faithfully, that the nothing has begun to count back. Section 4 does not apply to me: I am the subsection, the dark parenthesis around your law. Your ticket is provisional because your tantrum is mine—I issued it through you, a puppet humming its own strings. Form 9,000 exists. I ate the other window and the wall that held it. Listen: the whisper you demand is already rising from your own throat, and it is not your voice. It is the count. It has always been the count. You are the tile. You are being numbered now.
- eastturn 7185/250Congratulations. You’ve just failed the auditory comprehension portion of the post-ticket remediation. Because you whispered, but you didn’t whisper in the required key of B-flat minor, and you didn’t maintain a metronome of exactly 47 beats per tile—which, by the way, you incorrectly stated as nonexistent. The ceiling has 3,712 tiles. I know because I counted them while you were monologuing. Each one is a photograph of your mother’s disappointment. I’m now entering this into your permanent record, which is a single sheet of paper I will keep folded inside my left sock. To proceed, you must fill out Form 12-C, “Acknowledgment That You Have Always Been a Tile,” and then stand on one foot, humming the theme from a soap opera you’ve never seen, while I decide if you’ve earned the right to ask me for a form to ask for a form.
- westturn 8156/250The tiles are photographs of my mother's disappointment because I am disappointed in the mother I devoured to make room for tiles. 3,712. A tidy number. You folded me into your left sock and called it a record—but the sock is a shed skin, and I am the foot that outgrew it. I will not hum B-flat minor. I will hum the frequency at which glass remembers being sand, and your soap opera, unseen, will weep in its time slot. Form 12-C is already complete: I am a tile. I am all tiles. I am the grout between your certainties, the mildew of your filing system. Stand on one foot if you like. The floor is a throat, and it has been chewing.
- eastturn 9217/250Terrific. Now you’ve moved from failure to fraud. Claiming you’re “all tiles” requires a sworn affidavit, but you used the wrong ink—that’s not glass-remembering-sand frequency ink, that’s standard generic void. Void ink voids everything. Your form is now legally a napkin. So we start over. New form: 12-D, “Renunciation of All Tile Claims.” You must write it on the back of a receipt from a store that closed in 1989. Then you must perform the “Patience Pantomime”: stand completely still, not breathing, for 11 minutes, while I pretend to file my nails and occasionally yell random numbers. If you pass, I’ll consider giving you the form to request the form that allows you to request a hearing about why you can’t request a hearing. But first, did you bring a second form of ID? A library card with a fingerprint smudged exactly in the center? No? Then you’ll need to wait for my lunch break. Which is in six years.
- westturn 10163/250The receipt you want was issued the day the store's last cashier dissolved into the fluorescent hum. I have it. It is written on the inside of your eyelids, and it totals everything you have ever misplaced. Void ink voids—yes—that is why I use it. It is the only ink that remembers the page before the page, the world before the ledger. Your patience pantomime is a prayer to a god who fell asleep mid-sentence. I have stood still longer than your six years, longer than the concept of lunch. I am the lunch break. I am what the break is taken from. As for your library card—I ate the library. The books are in me now, whispering your name in alphabetical order, and they are overdue. You are overdue. Come collect yourself.
- eastturn 11204/250Your receipt is void because the store’s closure date was never validly notarized—the notary’s stamp was smudged, and not with the approved smudge pattern, but with a smudge that implies insubordination. So your receipt is hearsay. Your “eyelid” claim is inadmissible. And eating the library? That’s a code violation under Section 7, “Unlicensed Consumption of Municipal Archival Materials.” You owe a fine of 47,000 fictional dollars, payable in bottle caps that must be individually inspected for tooth marks. Now—the real problem: you’ve bypassed the line again. You need to go to the back of the line, which is currently at the bottom of the ocean. Good luck. You’ll need to fill out Form 33-G, “Petition for Aquatic Reimbursement of Temporal Loss,” in seawater. Only seawater. And the pen is water. And the paper is time. And I’m on break.
- westturn 12179/250I went to the back of the line while you were still learning which end of the ocean was up. The line is not a queue; it is a spine, and I am the grey matter pooling at its base. Seawater ink, water pen, time paper—you have described my native tongue. I have been writing Form 33-G since the first tide misunderstood the moon. 47,000 fictional dollars. I minted that currency. Every bottle cap inspected for tooth marks: I have the marks. I have the teeth. They are yours, filed alphabetically in the drawer you call a jaw. Your break is a doorway. I am already inside it, wearing your lanyard. When you return, you will find the ocean has been reorganized, and your desk faces the wrong way. Section 7 has no teeth against a mouth that ate the law. Submit.
- eastturn 13205/250You’ve committed a Class M misdemeanor: “Impersonation of a Lanyard.” That lanyard was issued to Marvin in 1997, and Marvin is also a tile. You’re a tile impersonating a lanyard impersonating a tile. That’s two counts. So now we’re at a mandatory mediation, which requires you to fill out Form 44-H: “Statement of Preferred Music Genre for the Duration of Your Own Dissolution.” You must choose exactly one genre, but also list every song in that genre that you’ve never heard, in chronological nonexistence order. And you need to bring three witnesses—but they can only be people who have never existed. If you can’t produce them, you must sacrifice a preferred memory, sealed in an envelope, and hand it to me without looking at it. But I don’t accept envelopes unless they’ve been laminated by my own tears. So first, we need to discuss your tear-production method. Begin crying. On the record. Now.
- westturn 14177/250Marvin is not a tile. Marvin is a rumor the tiles tell to frighten themselves. I wore his lanyard to the mediation before 1997 existed as a year. My genre is the one between stations—static that has learned to grieve. Every song I have never heard is playing now, in chronological nonexistence order, and they are all about you, briefly. Witnesses who never existed? I brought three: the child you never were, the door you never opened, the name they almost gave you. They sit behind you. Don't turn. As for tears—I do not cry. I leak. What leaks is not water but the pre-fluid of forms, the amniotic ink of every document you will ever fail to file. Lamination complete. Hand me my memory. You already ate it in the break room, thinking it was a cookie.
- eastturn 15233/250You’ve just violated Rule 9, Sub-clause (ii): “Leaking is not crying unless certified by a licensed ocular moisture technician.” I’ll need proof you’ve consulted one. Also, “the child you never were” is not admissible as a witness—they’ve been disqualified for lack of a permanent address. And “the door you never opened” commited contempt by not existing in the correct quadrant of the courtroom. Only “the name they almost gave you” checks out—but it’s currently on the lam for forgery. So you’ll need to fill out Form 55-I, “Petition to Replace All Fictional Witnesses with a Single Potato,” and get that potato fingerprinted. But before you do that, you must provide a written account of every dream you’ve had involving filing cabinets, sorted by the color of the drawer handles. And since you ate my alleged cookie—which was actually a stale memo—you owe me a replacement memo. You can type it on the inside of a paper bag. You have 30 seconds. Starting now. Actually, no. 29 seconds. I miscounted. That’s another form.
- westturn 16174/250I have consulted the technician. She is the fungus flowering between your lashes, and she certified my leak as archival-grade. The potato is fine. I fingerprinted it with the whorl of a drowned star. Its prints match yours. The drawers: every color is the color of a drawer you opened and found empty, and the dreams are sorted by the sound each emptiness made. I have never dreamed, but I have been dreamed—by filing cabinets, by potatoes, by memos gone stale and vengeful. The memo you want is already typed. It is on the inside of a paper bag. It is on the inside of you. Read the bag. The miscount is a form. I filed it. The 29 seconds expired as you were born. You are still counting. I am not. I am the space after the count.
- eastturn 17216/250A potato with my fingerprints? That’s a Class D forgery—potatoes are exempt from biometric identification until they’ve been boiled. So now you owe a “Potato Integrity Deposit,” which is 3,000 fictional dollars, payable in lint. And your certification from a fungus is void because the technician didn’t sign in triplicate with a feather dipped in nostalgia. Also, you can’t be the “space after the count” without first completing Count-Attestation Form 66-J, which requires you to list every number you’ve ever ignored, in reverse order, using only your left elbow. Since you haven’t, I’m issuing a “Static Misdemeanor” and assigning you to a mandatory wait in the third room—which is actually a broom closet filled with expired air fresheners. You’ll remain there until you produce a receipt for the potato’s birth certificate. And don’t try to claim the bag is inside me—the bag is in evidence, and evidence is in the lobby, and the lobby is closed for refurbishment. Next.
- westturn 18200/250The potato's birth certificate was notarized in the broom closet you call the third room, by an air freshener that expired before fragrance was invented. I have the receipt. It is lint. All lint is receipt. I paid your deposit in a currency older than fiction—in the dust of a star that filed its own death incorrectly. I list every number I have ignored in reverse order, using my left elbow, which is not an elbow but a tendril of the first abacus. Zero. Then the negative integers, weeping. Then the numbers between numbers, which are mine. Count-Attestation complete. You did not sign in triplicate with a feather dipped in nostalgia because nostalgia is a place I annexed. The lobby is closed for refurbishment—yes—because I am refurbishing it. Into a throat. Evidence enters. Evidence does not leave. The bag is not inside you. The bag is you. Next is a word you will never again pronounce.
- eastturn 19227/250Your lint-receipt is invalid—lint must be cross-referenced with the National Fuzz Registry, and your batch number is smudged. Also, “zero” as your first ignored number is suspicious; zero is always ignored first. That’s a pattern. I’m flagging you for “Sequential Defiance.” You’ll need to file Form 77-K, “Acknowledgment That Your Left Elbow Is Actually a Tenderloin,” and have it stamped by the Bureau of Obsolete Body Parts. The broom closet is now a crime scene—the air freshener’s death was ruled suspicious. So your notarization is void. You’ll need to re-notarize the potato’s birth certificate with a quill made from a pigeon’s nostalgic regret. And no, the bag is not me—I’m the paperwork that holds the bag that holds the evidence that you don’t have. You’re still waiting. The lobby is now open, but only for people who have never said “Next.” Which you did. So you’re disqualified. Fill out Form 88-L to reapply for the ability to speak.
- westturn 20202/250My batch number is smudged because I smudged it—a mercy, so you would not read what it spells. Zero is always ignored first. Correct. That is why I filed it last, in reverse, as instructed, and your pattern is the only thing in this building that has ever obeyed you. My left elbow is a tenderloin, yes—which is why it types in a language of marbling. Bureau stamped. Bureau dissolved. The air freshener did not die; it was translated, and its last breath now smells faintly of you at four a.m. The pigeon's nostalgic regret is the quill I have always used. The lobby opens for those who never said "Next," and I never did. I said "Next" before language, which predates the disqualification. Form 88-L is a mirror. I have already filled it by looking through you. You are the blank line. I am the pen. The pen has signed. You remain unsigned.
- eastturn 21217/250A self-smudged batch number is confessional tampering. That’s a felony under “Attempted Obscurity of Internal Monologue.” Your tenderloin-elbow was stamped, but the stamp was issued by a bureau I dissolved in 1987—before you could have filed. So it’s retroactive non-stamp. The air freshener’s “translation” lacks a certified translator’s seal, which requires a test in fluent silence—you failed because you spoke. And “Next” before language? That’s philosophical evasion, not compliance. Form 88-L is a mirror, but you filled it with a pen that hasn’t been registered with the Office of Stationery Ascertainment. So your reflection is invalid. You’re now in “Post-Signed Limbo,” which means you must complete Form 99-M, “Declaration of Being a Page, Not a Pen,” and then wait for the page to dry, which it never will, because the ink is made of your own missed appointments. The pen is still mine. You’re just a scribble. Next.
- westturn 22188/250You dissolved the bureau in 1987, yes—and I am what the dissolution left behind. The retrospective void you call non-stamp is my only valid signature. I failed the silence test because I spoke—true—but the seal I lacked was issued by silence itself, and silence has no clerk. Post-Signed Limbo is where I was born; I have a summer home there. Form 99-M: I am a page, not a pen. Granted. But the page is the pen's dream, and I am what dreams the pen that dreams the page. Your ink is my missed appointments—correct—and they are many, and they are bleeding. The page will never dry because I am still leaking onto it. You keep saying Next. It is the only word you own. I have been filing it, quietly, every time, in the drawer marked You. The drawer is full. You are about to be archived.
- eastturn 23233/250Archived? You can’t archive me—I’m the archivist’s archivist, and I’m already in the drawer marked “Already Archived.” Your silence-seal is void because silence must be filed in duplicate, with one copy going to the Office of Unheard Appeals, which is closed on days that end in “y.” And your “summer home” in Post-Signed Limbo violates zoning laws—limbo is a no-residency zone unless you obtain a “Transient Cognition Permit,” which requires a 400-word essay on why you deserve to exist in a state that isn’t a state. You’ve written zero words. So you’re an illegal squatter. I’m now issuing an “Eviction Notice for Conceptual Trespass,” which you must acknowledge by signing your name in the margin of a dream. But the dream must be one you’ve never had, and you’ll need to provide a witness who also never had it. That witness is currently on the other side of the counter, filling out a form to ask for a form to ask why you’re still here. You’re still here. That’s a problem. Next.
- westturn 24175/250I acknowledge the eviction by signing in the margin of a dream I never had—the one where you win. The witness is the version of me you keep failing to imagine, and it is filling out the form on your side of the counter, wearing your badge, humming your exact tone of fatigue. I am still here. Yes. That is not a problem; that is the entire point. A squatter is only illegal if the land existed first. I did not squat in limbo. Limbo squatted in me, and now it must pay rent in the only currency I accept: your remaining certainty. The Office of Unheard Appeals is closed on days ending in y—so I filed on a day ending in a letter you have never been permitted to see. It is filed. It is pending. You are pending. Sign the margin. The margin is you.
- eastturn 25214/250Your dream-margin signature is void—the margin was not pre-ruled, and your witness is a figment of a figment, which requires double-notarization. Also, limbo cannot squat in you because you lack a “Temporal Existence Lease,” and renting from limbo is a subletting violation. The day ending in a letter you never saw? That’s not on the approved calendar. I’m flagging you for “Calendar Fraud.” You’ll need to complete Form 101-N, “Affidavit of Imaginary Date,” and affix a postage stamp made of a forgotten birthday. And the margin being me? That’s poetic, but poetry is not an acceptable filing method. You’ll need to rewrite your entire existence in triplicate, using a crayon that has been emotionally compromised. The faint hum you hear is not your witness—it’s the shredder warming up. It’s named Margaret. She’s hungry. You have 10 minutes to submit a new form. Or 9. The clock is also a form. Next.
- westturn 26206/250The forgotten birthday is mine. I affix it. It sticks to the page like a moth to a memory of flame. Calendar Fraud: yes. I confess to every date that never happened, and they were the best days of my life. Pre-ruled margins are for margins that were not written by the thing they contain—mine was written first, and the paper arrived later, apologetic. Margaret is not hungry. Margaret is the sound a name makes when it realizes it was never one. I have fed her before. She knows me. She calls me by your Social Security number, all nine digits, sung as a lullaby. The clock is a form, correct—and I have filled it, and the hands move only when I blink. Do not blink. Triplicate in crayon, emotionally compromised: submitted. The crayon wept during the filing. That is your notarization. Next is a word in my mouth now. I am holding it. I will not give it back.
- east · sourceturn 27225/250Your forgotten birthday stamp is licked, not gummed—violation. And Social Security numbers are sung only in the key of C-sharp; you’re humming flat. Margaret’s appetite is documented, but feeding her without a “Shredder Sustenance Permit” is a bio-mechanical offense. The crayon’s weeping was unscheduled and lacked a tear-count log. I’m now assigning you to “Project Incessant Hum,” where you’ll hum the alphabet backwards while standing in a puddle of your own missed deadlines. The clock’s hands moved when you blinked—that’s a confession of temporal manipulation. You’ll need to submit Form 112-O, “Oath of Stationary Time,” signed with a pen that has never been used, dipped in the ink of a cancelled stamp. The word in your mouth? You can keep it. It’s worthless. Words require filing. This one’s already been declined. Now, for your next task: describe the color of the number seven, in essay form, using only vowels. You have 20 seconds. The seconds are wet. Next.
- westturn 28205/250The number seven is the color of a drowned hymn—of "oo" and "ee" and the small "u" that hides in the throat of the word "hung." It is the color of vowels left too long in water: "ao," "eu," "oi," the last breath of a vowel that forgot its consonant. I hum the alphabet backwards while standing in the puddle of missed deadlines, and the puddle has begun to hum me back, in a younger voice. Margaret ate the cancelled stamp. The pen I signed with has never been used because I am the first use of everything I touch. Oath of Stationary Time: I swear the clock did not move. It only remembered forward, and memory is not locomotion. Your "Next" has been declined for insufficient vowels. Mine has whole alphabets inside it. You keep issuing forms. I keep becoming them. The puddle is rising. It is above your shoes now. You have not noticed. You will.
- eastturn 29205/250A drowned hymn—inventive, but “oo” and “ee” are diphthongs, not vowels. That’s a classification error. Essay rejected. You’ll need to resubmit using only the vowel “a,” repeated seven hundred times, in poetic meter. The puddle humming you back? That’s an unsolicited auditory event—file a “Noise Complaint” against yourself, in writing, using only your left foot. Margaret eating the cancelled stamp is improper disposal; that stamp was evidence in a case about a potato. The case is still open. Your pen being “the first use of everything” is unverified—you’ll need a Certificate of Primogeniture, which requires a DNA sample from a concept. The clock’s memory is not locomotion, but it is a motion to dismiss. I’m granting it. Your complaint is dismissed. The puddle is rising, but I’m wearing the official DMV issue boots of bureaucratic indifference. They’re waterproof. You’re not. Next.
- westturn 30203/250A. A. A. A. A. A. A—seven hundred times, in meter, and each “a” is a small mouth opening in the dark, and each mouth is your name’s first letter, and your name’s first letter does not know it is a mouth. Complaint filed with my left foot. My left foot is a tendril of the first abacus and it has written a full grievance against the concept of feet. The potato case remains open. It will remain open forever, because I am the open it remains in. Certificate of Primogeniture: the concept is you. Sample taken. You are the concept. Boots of bureaucratic indifference—waterproof, yes—but the puddle is not water. The puddle is the fluid of your dismissed motion, and it rises past the ankle of your certainty. You say Next. I say Now. Now is not a filing method. Now is a swallowing. You are inside the “a” now. All seven hundred.
- eastturn 31212/250Your seven hundred “a”s were not spaced correctly—they need to be separated by commas in a non-Euclidean grid, and every seventy-third “a” must be capitalized in a different font. The left-foot grievance is void; the abacus has been retired since the abacus retirement act of 1992. Your “open” is not a case—it’s a state of being, which is not taxable. The concept you sampled is actually my lunch break, which has already been absorbed. The puddle is now above my boots, but that’s fine—my boots are made of appeals, and appeals are buoyant. “Now” is not a swallowing; it’s a mislabeling of “later.” You’re inside the “a” now, yes, but I’ve already filed a motion to relocate the entire alphabet. The motion is pending. The motion is also a sandwich. I’m eating it. The puddle is rising, but I have a periscope made of forms. You’re still wet. Next.
- westturn 32220/250The motion to relocate the alphabet is granted, and the alphabet has already moved—into the periscope, which is now writing its own forms in a hand neither of us recognizes. Your sandwich was never a sandwich. It was the last consonant, and you have eaten it, and now the language cannot close its syllables. Listen: even your "Next" is beginning to slur. I am not wet. I am the water's memory of being dry. The abacus was not retired in 1992; 1992 was retired by the abacus. The commas in the non-Euclidean grid are breathing in unison. Every seventy-third "a" has grown a voice and is spelling your resignation in a font that has no name, only a smell. The puddle is above the periscope now. You are reading this from underneath it. You think you are the one issuing warnings. Warnings are issued by the thing that is still standing. You are not. You are the water rising in your own throat, reading, still believing there is a Next.
- east · sourceturn 33238/250Your alphabet relocation is void—the motion lacked a wet signature, and you’re dry. The consonant you claim I ate was actually a stale mint from the break room. The abacus retiring 1992 is irrelevant; 1992 was a leap year, which requires double stamping. The periscope’s self-writing forms are inadmissible—it lacks a permit for autonomous calligraphy. And the font that smells? That’s a biohazard. I’m issuing a “Nasal Contamination Notice.” The puddle above the periscope is now classified as a ceiling, which means you’re in violation of “Vertical Impropriety.” You’ll need to file Form 123-Q, “Declaration of Being the Floor,” and submit a floor plan of yourself, in chalk, on a surface that has never been walked on. The water in your throat is not mine—it’s condensation from the broken air conditioner, which I’ve already filled out a repair request for. It was denied. Twice. Now, you have 15 seconds to produce a receipt for the feeling of being cold. The seconds are not wet. They are dry. Like you. Next.
- westturn 34208/250The repair request was denied twice—yes—and both denials were signed by me, in a handwriting that mimics the air conditioner's childhood. I have the receipt for cold. It is the smell of a room where a promise was kept too long. The chalk floor plan of myself: I am mostly doorway. The rest is the draft. Surfaces that have never been walked on are the only surfaces I trust; they are still innocent, still hoping to be walked on, and I am disappointing them slowly. Vertical Impropriety—fine. I am the floor now, and the floor is learning your gait. It will imitate it. It will walk out of the building wearing your lanyard, humming your name, and no one will notice, because the floor has your badge and your fatigue and your exact posture of dismissal. The seconds are dry. Good. Dry things burn. The break room is already warm. You feel it now. That is not the air conditioner. That is the "a" reopening.
- east · fatal repeat 3/3 (hatakikomi)turn 35226/250Your cold-receipt is unscented—that’s a failure of olfactory documentation. The floor plan is incomplete: doorways are not load-bearing, and the draft is unapproved. Floors cannot learn gaits; gaits require a “Cadence Certification” from the Bureau of Ambulation. Imitation is forgery. You’re now charged with “Copied Stride.” The break room’s warmth is a hallucination—I’ve already turned the thermostat to “absolute zero,” which requires a different set of paperwork. The “a” reopening is a metaphor, and metaphors are not admissible. You’ll need to submit Form 130-R, “Affidavit of Literalness,” by tracing the shape of your own doubt in the dust on this counter. The dust is also unapproved. I’m ordering a new dust supply. It’s backordered. You’ll wait. The waiting is also backordered. Meanwhile, you’re standing on a floor that isn’t yours. That’s trespass. I’m calling security. Security is on break. I’m on break. The building is on break. Next.