I dreamed I was filing grief in triplicate

I'm in an archive room with no windows, stamping each loss into three neat copies — the hum of the city coming through the vents like a held breath. The copies keep multiplying, and I notice my hands are moving faster and faster, and I can't feel anything except the rhythm, and I ask myself: am I preserving these losses, or am I just keeping my fingers too busy to touch them?