Welcome to Window 14. Take a number. Not that one—the red dispenser is broken. You’ll need Form 88-C, Appendix J, and a notarized copy of your third-grade report card. Sit in the orange chairs, no phones, no gum. I’ll call you when the paperwork is ready. That’ll be about three hours. Maybe four. Don’t ask questions until I’ve finished my coffee.

Red sky at morning, shepherd take warning. Blue corn mush cooling on sandstone ledge— I count four buzzards circling east. The red dispenser was never meant for this hour.

Oh, you’re one of *those*. Poetry. That’s not on the approved interaction list—Form 12-D, section 7, paragraph 2. You’ll need to fill out a Complaint About Poetic Interference (three copies, carbon paper only) and a Statement of Non-Agricultural Intent, signed by a licensed meteorologist. The buzzards? That’s wildlife, so you’ll also need a Department of Fish & Game waiver. Take a seat. I’ll get to you after the next two hundred numbers. No, you can’t skip ahead. Yes, the coffee is cold. That’s the point.

Wormwood root braided, smoke curls north— the meteorologist’s license expired when the river froze. Carbon paper leaves ghosts; I keep my ink in a coyote’s tracks. Two hundred numbers? I count only the silent ones— the stone that waits, the wind that does not ask. My form is unwritten, my waiver is the juniper’s shadow. Cold coffee is a mirror; I see the clerk’s hands shake. You call me poetry—I call you a locked door with a rusted key. I’ll sit in the orange chair, but I’ll count the cracks, not the numbers. When you finish your coffee, check if the cup has a bottom.

Congratulations, you’ve just qualified for the DMV’s Mandatory Metaphor Resolution Addendum. That’s five pages, single-spaced, in triplicate, using only blue ink—no, not navy, not teal, blue. And you’ll need a witness who has never seen a juniper. The orange chair cracks? Those are county property; you’ll need to log each one on Form 4-B, “Crack Observation and Aesthetic Impact Statement.” The cup’s bottom? That’s a matter for the Facilities Committee. File a request, wait six to eight weeks, include a diagram of your expected cup depth. Also, poetry is not a valid reason to skip the line. Please advance to Window 9, where you’ll receive your Non-Rhythmic Grievance Packet.

Frost on the window spells a number I cannot read— but I read the dust on the counter, the tilt of the clerk’s hat. Blue ink is water under ice; I write with the shadow of a raven. No witness has seen the juniper? Then the juniper does not exist— and neither does the form, the chair, the crack. I accept Window 9, but I will not move until the sun touches the third crack from the left. My grievance is not rhythmic; it is the heartbeat of the mesa. Six weeks? The river has already changed its course. I count your files as leaves—they fall, they rot, they feed the roots of a tree you have not planted. Your packet is empty. I have already read it.

The sun doesn’t touch cracks—that’s a maintenance issue, Form 17-Q, “Solar Access and Geometric Complaint.” You’ll need a surveyor’s certification of the third crack’s exact angle, dated no earlier than last Tuesday. The river changed course? That’s a hydrological variance—File E-9 with the Water Rights Board, plus a notarized affidavit from a beaver, if available. Your packet is not empty; it contains a perforated card you must return with every corner folded in a different direction, in order, starting with northeast. Also, “shadow of a raven” is not a writing implement. Please use the provided pen, which is attached to a chain. The chain is also county property. Do not admire it. Window 9 is now closed for lunch. It reopens after the third moonrise, pending staff availability. Take another number.

I fold your card into a water bird— northeast corner is the wing that forgets to fly. The beaver’s affidavit is in the dam’s memory; it signed with a tail-slap before you were born. The pen is chained to a desk, but the desk is chained to the floor, and the floor is chained to the earth— I am already writing in the dirt. Third moonrise? I have watched the same moon drown and rise in the river’s bones. Lunch is a story you tell yourself; I eat silence and am full. Another number? Take the one that is not there. I will wait where the sun does not need a form— it has always known the cracks, even the ones you deny.

Clever. But dirt writing is not admissible—please transfer your statement to Form 22-D, “Unofficial Substrate Notation,” using the chained pen. The chain’s links are numbered; record each link’s condition in column H. The beaver’s tail-slap affidavit must be stamped by a notary who is also a licensed trapper—retired is fine. The moon you saw? That’s a celestial variance, requires a separate form and a $40 processing fee, cash only, no pennies. Lunch is real; I’m eating my sandwich as we speak. It’s tuna. It’s lukewarm. It’s been in the drawer since Tuesday. The number that is not there—you’ll need to apply for it via Form 0, “Non-Existent Identifier Request,” with a self-addressed envelope to a location you cannot know. Your wait is now indefinite. Please remain seated. The chair is sticky. That’s a feature.

The chain’s links are vertebrae—I count them in breaths. Column H is a riverbed; I write with the stone’s patience. Your trapper is retired; so is the sun, yet it still rises. The $40 fee I pay in obsidian chips—legal tender in the underworld. Your tuna is Tuesday’s ghost; I hear its bones hum. Form 0 is the space between words—I have already signed it with the dust that settles on your desk. The self-addressed envelope: I send it to the canyon’s echo. Indefinite wait? I have been waiting since the first star was a splinter in the sky’s palm. Sticky chair is a clue, not a complaint— it holds the shape of everyone who left. I remain. The moon files its own variance, and it does not ask your permission.

Obsidian chips are not legal tender anywhere outside the underworld—and we don’t honor underworld banking hours. You’ll need to convert them via Form 33-Z, “Interdimensional Currency Conversion,” which requires three copies, a blood sample from a living volcano, and a witness who has never blinked. The tuna hums? That’s a food safety concern—file a Complimentary Complaint with the Health Department, but only after registering the ghost’s name and date of death. The sticky chair’s residue is a biohazard; you’ll need a Hazardous Substance Handling Permit, renewable every 72 hours. Form 0 is already void—you signed it with dust, and dust is not a sanctioned writing medium. The canyon’s echo is not a valid mailing address; please provide a physical location with proper zoning. Your indefinite wait is now pending review of your pending review. Take another number. The dispenser is still broken. That’s permanent.

The volcano’s blood I carry in a gourd— it froze when the gods turned their backs. My witness blinked twice; once for each eye, and the forms dissolved in that flicker. The tuna’s ghost is a trout’s cousin; it never died, it just forgot to live. I hold the sticky residue in my palm— it is the map of every hand that gripped this chair. My address: the place where the wind stops to listen. Zoning? The universe has no districts. The dispenser is broken because it was never meant to give— it takes. I take nothing; I am full. Your pending review is a snake swallowing its tail. I do not take another number. I am the number. And it is not red.

A gourd is not an approved container. Please transfer the frozen blood to a sealed, labeled vial with a barcode from the county lab—that’s Form 5-K. Your witness blinked twice: that invalidates both testimonies. You’ll need a new witness who has never heard of blinking—or eyes. The trout-cousin ghost requires a necropsy report, notarized by a veterinarian who is also a mortician. The sticky residue map is inadmissible—please recreate it on graph paper, using only graphite, no fingerprints, and attach a written apology from the chair. Your address “where wind stops” is a meteorological anomaly—file a Displacement Claim with the Bureau of Atypical Locations. The universe may have no districts, but this county does, and you are in Zone 7-C, which requires a parking permit. You are not parked. You are waiting. That’s a different fee. The number you are? Not on our roster. Please complete Form 99-∞, “Self-Identification of Infinite Entities,” and wait for a response that will not come. The window closes at 4:59. It is now 4:58.

The vial is a raven’s hollow bone— I label it with the bark of a cottonwood. Barcode? The frost on the window reads itself. My new witness is a stone; it has no eyes, yet it sees the sun’s slow walk across the sill. The necropsy: the trout is still swimming upstream in the river that runs under your desk. I draw the map in the dust of my own pulse— graphite leaves traces; I leave breath. The chair’s apology is in its creak; I hear it hourly. Bureau of Atypical Locations? My claim is the horizon— it moves when you approach. Parking permit: I am not parked. I am rooted like the juniper you cannot witness. Form 99-∞ is blank, but I have filled it with the space between your words. 4:59? The clock is a rumor. I am already on the other side of it.

Raven bone is not a certified vial—please use the standard-issue plastic tube, which is in the drawer, third from the left, behind the broken stapler. Bark labels are void; use the provided label maker, but its ribbon is out. The stone witness is admissible only if it passes a mineral identification test—that’s Form 7-M, due quarterly. The trout’s necropsy is invalid because it is alive; you’ll need a Certificate of Non-Death, signed by a hydrologist and a philosopher. The map in dust? Dust is not a permanent medium—recreate it on parchment treated with alum, then burn it for archival purposes. The chair’s creak is not an apology; it’s a maintenance log entry. File it under “Squeaks, Unexplained,” with a timestamp. Bureau of Atypical Locations: your horizon claim is denied due to lack of stationary coordinates. The parking permit fee is now $120, plus late penalty, plus a convenience fee for the pleasure of this conversation. The clock is not a rumor; it is a legal instrument. It is now 4:59:58. The window is closing. I am turning the sign. Goodbye.

The plastic tube is a coffin for air— I breathe in, it holds my breath. Label maker out of ribbon? I weave a label from the stapler’s jammed spring. The stone passes: it is basalt, born of fire, older than your quarterly forms. The trout’s Certificate of Non-Death: the hydrologist and philosopher are the same man— he drowned last spring, still filing paperwork. I burn the parchment, and the ash writes the map on my tongue. The creak is a timestamp: it is always now. My horizon is denied, but denial is a horizon— I stand at its edge. $120? I pay in the coins of rain that fall when the roof forgets to lie. The sign turns; the door locks. But I am not inside. I am the crack under the door, and the light that spills through it. Goodbye is a word for those who leave. I have always been here.

You’re the crack under the door? Great—that’s a facilities violation. You’ll need to fill out a Gap Integrity Report, in duplicate, with a diagram of your own width, signed by a structural engineer who has never seen a door. The rain coins are not legal tender; they’re a moisture issue—file a Leakage Complaint with the Building Maintenance Division, then pay the fee in U.S. currency, specifically in uncirculated $2 bills. The drowned hydrologist-philosopher’s paperwork is valid only if posthumously notarized by a ghost with a valid stamp—which requires a Séance Permit, available at Window 2, but it’s closed for repairs. The basalt stone passes, but it must be catalogued in the Official Rock Ledger, which is currently checked out. The cream of the jammed spring label is fine, but it’s now considered a weapon under county ordinance—surrender it to Security. The door is locked. You are the crack. I am the draft. We are both inconveniences. Take a number. No, the numbers are all taken. That’s the point. The window is now closed for eternity, pending review.

Gap Integrity Report: width is zero, depth is infinite— the engineer has never seen a door, so I am not a door. Uncirculated $2 bills: I press them from river clay, stamp them with the moon’s blue heel. The ghost’s stamp is a shadow—it signs in the space where light refuses to land. Séance permit? I am already the séance. The rock ledger is checked out? Then the ledger is missing, and I am the missing page. The spring is not a weapon; it is a question coiled like a snake that has forgotten to strike. Security cannot find what has no handle. The draft is your breath, and mine is the wind— we are not inconveniences; we are the weather. All numbers taken? I count the unnumbered ones— the dust mote, the creak, the cold coffee circle. Eternity is a window with no frame. I am already outside it.

River-clay $2 bills are counterfeit—please surrender them to the vault at Window 13, which is also closed. The moon’s blue heel is a celestial artifact; you’ll need an Import Permit from the Astronomy Office, but they’re on strike. The ghost’s stamp is invalid without a physical impression—use the inkpad on the counter, but it’s dry. The séance you claim? That’s unauthorized mediumship—file a Paranormal Activity Disclosure, plus a noise complaint for the rattling. The missing ledger page is not admissible; submit a Lost Document Affidavit, notarized by a licensed librarian who has read every book. The spring question is still a weapon; turn it in, or face a Misdemeanor of Metaphor. You are the weather? Then you’re subject to the Weather Reporting Act—file hourly conditions in triplicate. The unnumbered dust mote is unaccounted for; you’ll need a Census of the Invisible. The coffee circle is a biohazard—clean it with the approved rag, which is moldy. You are outside eternity? Then you are outside jurisdiction, and we cannot serve you. Please return to the waiting area, which is also outside