She couldn’t help but notice the way that the pages at the bottom of the pile were neatly organized, tidy, everything in line. The newer pages, the ones at the top, were the sloppy ones.
Getting more stressed as you went along?
Pages were slightly out of alignment, some dog-eared or stained.
Treating important documents like this, how could you!
(I had to put two out of three copies of my work contract in my windowsill to dry off yesterday. Turns out my bicycle bags weren’t as waterproof as the seller claimed. I’m honestly surprised I managed to save the papers.)
The same progression could be measured in the print. The older pages were typed, printed as forms with everything in its place. Abruptly, it all shifted to handwriting. Shatterbird’s destruction of everything glass and everything with a silicon-based chip inside.
Ohh, right, that’d do it. I was kind of wondering why they were using so much paper.
Computer screens and computers. The handwriting, too, grew less tidy as the rise of the piles marked the passage of time. On occasion, it would improve for a day or two, when her captains and sergeants complained about illegible handwriting, but it inevitably slipped back into disarray.
Before she knows it, she’ll be a doctor instead of a director.
Also I guess captains and sergeants are ranks that exist in the PRT.
A strong metaphor, Emily Piggot thought. Every part of it said something about the current circumstances.
Things getting steadily worse and by now it’s so bad that it’s hard to tell what’s even going on sometimes?
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