The dreary little office grew drearier and smaller every day it seemed. Xylitol began his morning routine by casting a dismal frown across the room, at the vast mound of papers blocking his cubicle’s door. He turned over his shoulder, catching sight of the poster on the wall reading “Don’t think, Do” in big beveled indigo letters. Hundreds of cubicles like his own were abstracted on the poster as a checkerboard workforce stamping and passing and stamping and passing, each moving the unimaginable amount of paperwork in Destiny Enterprises one step closer to completion.
Xylitol reached across his desk and picked up the first paper of the day, snapping it from the top of the mound. An older man in Oregon was about to be foreclosed on. It was dated three months ago, and by now, Xylitol had no say in the matter. He picked up his big black “RESOLVED” stamp, stamped the paper and passed it through a slit to the adjacent cubicle. He wondered if anyone was even there. Through the slit, the mound in the adjacent cubicle appeared to have risen past the level of the desk. Mechanically, he reached forward again. He felt a crack in his back, ignored the pain and examined the new case. Likely another one past due, but somebody had to stamp it.