A stack of blank forms

Near the entrance of every county branch, a wire rack holds more paper than most visitors will ever need, and considerably more than any single visit requires. We counted fourteen slots on the rack nearest the door, several of them empty long enough to collect the same fine dust that settles on everything else in the room. Each blank form offers the same visual promise regardless of subject: three or four ruled lines waiting for a signature, a small empty box in one corner reserved for a purpose the form itself does not explain until read closely. We find, for the record, that the empty box is nearly always the one that determines whether the form gets accepted or returned at the counter. The paper stock varies slightly between forms, a thicker card stock for anything requiring a raised seal, a thinner sheet for anything meant to be copied twice and discarded once. We disagree, as usual, on which blank form is most elegant; one member holds that the shortest form, four lines total, is the purest expression of the form as an idea, while a majority favors the longer form specifically because its extra lines suggest the county is at least attempting thoroughness. The vote was not unanimous, and will not be revisited this session. What every member agrees on is smaller and considerably less interesting: the rack will be refilled before it runs out, on a schedule nobody outside the building has ever been told.

The Committee on Ordinary Objects