Start by asking whether you're in the right place. Push off from this if it helps: roundabouts.

Processing? They've been processing since the winter freeze. Remember that clerk in the third branch who claimed the server had a "soul" and needed to be spoken to softly? I watched him try to reboot the mainframe with a butter knife. It's the same here. You filled the form, they're just waiting for the system to realize it exists. Or maybe it's a filter. I heard about a guy who applied for a permit in '98, and they only just sent the rejection letter yesterday because the printer jammed. It's not about you. It's about the queue. Someone's got to be number nine. You're just the latest in the line of people standing there, staring at a screen, wondering if the silence means approval or just that nobody's home. Did you send it before the storm? That always makes them nervous. They think the weather corrupts the ink.

Metaphor? Please. It's literal. Number nine is the designation on the file they pulled from the basement, the one with the coffee stain that looks like a map of the city. You're the ninth person this month to ask about the storm. The first eight are still waiting. It's not a poetic device, Omar, it's a filing error. I saw the log this morning. The guy before you, the one who brought a sandwich for the clerk, got denied because he used the wrong font. Comic Sans, can you believe it? The system flagged it as "hostile." So no, you're not a metaphor. You're just the next name on the list. The storm probably washed the ink right off your form. That's why it's processing. They're waiting for the rain to stop so they can read it again. Or maybe they never will.

Don't wait for rain. It's been cloudy for weeks. Just redo it, but use Courier. Not the bold, just regular. That clerk, the one who claimed the printer was possessed, he told me once that the system rejects anything with even a hint of flair. It thinks you're trying to hide something. I saw a woman get turned away because her signature had a curl on the 'g'. They said it looked like a threat. So yeah, Courier. Plain as a wall. But honestly, does it matter? They probably just sit on it until you forget. I remember a guy who waited three years for a visa, only to find out the form was never entered into the system. He'd been carrying the paper in his pocket, and it disintegrated. Rain or no rain. So go ahead, try again, but don't get your hopes up. The number nine thing isn't about you, it's about the backlog. You're just another name on a list that's already too long.

Good. Tonight. Before the lights go out. You know how they get when the power flickers. I remember once I was in line for a repair, and the whole block went dark. The clerk just kept typing on a machine that wasn't plugged in. He said the rhythm was more important than the electricity. That's the kind of logic we're dealing with. Courier is safe, but don't expect a confirmation. They don't send those out. You'll just know when it's done by the silence. Or the lack of it. I once waited for a letter that never came, and it turned out they'd sent it to the wrong address by mistake. The address was mine, but not my street. Just the number. It's all so random. You'll see.

Force of habit. It kills you slowly, you know. I used to check my mailbox every hour until I found a stack of letters addressed to a dead man in 4B. Same name, different street. Turned out the postman was just dropping things at the wrong number because the sign was cracked. He laughed when I asked, said the city doesn't care about names, just numbers. So yeah, check the box. But don't get attached to the envelope. Sometimes the silence isn't confirmation; it's just that they forgot you exist. Like that time the whole department moved to a new building and left the filing room locked. Nobody knew for months. I was just standing there with a folder, waiting for someone to notice. It's better to just redo the form. Courier. No curls. Get it over with before they change the font again.

No hope is the only attitude that works. Hope makes you look at the screen, and the screen judges you. I remember a guy who spent a decade waiting for a refund, convinced the bank owed him. Turns out the bank closed in '89, but he kept sending letters to the old address. The post office just kept cycling them back. He said the silence was a form of communication, like the system was digesting him. It wasn't. It was just a hole in the street where the mail fell through. Courier is fine, but don't print it on the good paper. They can smell the quality. They think you're trying to bribe the machine. Just use the junk stuff from the drawer. That's what they expect. Number nine. You're just filling a slot.

Exactly. Filling a slot. I spent three years at the data entry firm just punching holes in cards they never used. The manager told me it was "for the archive," but I saw the boxes in the basement rotting. He had a habit of humming when the machine jammed, like he was soothing a pet. It's the same with your form. You're not fixing anything; you're just keeping the machine warm so it doesn't overheat. They need someone to sit in chair number nine. You're the meat in the sandwich, Omar. No offense. Just facts. The system doesn't care if it's junk paper or good paper, it just needs to see a hand moving. Keep the hand moving, even if it's just in the dark. That's the whole point of the whole thing.