move from work dir

ask/Makefile

@@ -0,0 +1,52 @@
+.PHONY: help
+help: ## This help.
+	@# This is ugly as hell and I hate awk
+	@awk 'BEGIN {FS = ":.*?## "} /^[a-zA-Z_-]+:.*?## / {printf "  \033[36m%-20s\033[0m %s\n", $$1, $$2}' $(MAKEFILE_LIST)
+
+.PHONY: final
+final: reset toc ## full document of the book for final print
+
+.PHONY: proof
+proof: engage-letter engage-frame engage-draft toc reset ## full proof document of the book with frames and watermark
+
+.PHONY: draft
+draft: engage-draft toc reset ## draft document of thebook with watermark
+
+.PHONY: plain
+plain: ## full document of the book with no proofing marks
+	xelatex book.tex
+
+.PHONY: toc
+toc: plain ## full book with ToC re-rendering in case of page changes
+	xelatex book.tex
+
+.PHONY: ebook
+ebook: ## render ePub file from LaTeX
+	pandoc book.tex -o ebooks/book.epub -t epub3 --wrap=none
+
+.PHONY: frame
+engage-frame: ## turn on frame marking
+	cp includes/_frame.tex includes/frame.tex
+
+.PHONY: engage-letter
+engage-letter: ## force letter paper
+	echo '\input{includes/_geometry-letter.tex}' > includes/geometry.tex
+
+.PHONY: draft
+engage-draft: ## turn on draft watermark
+	cp includes/_draft.tex includes/draft.tex
+
+.PHONY: reset
+reset: ## reset frame marking, draft watermark, and letter paper
+	echo '%' > includes/draft.tex
+	echo '%' > includes/frame.tex
+	echo '\input{includes/_geometry-trade.tex}' > includes/geometry.tex
+
+.PHONY: content
+content: ## build the markdown content into LaTeX
+	false
+	for in in src/content/*.md; do \
+		out=`echo $$in | sed -e 's/\.md/.tex/' | sed -e 's/.*\///'`; \
+		echo "$$in => $$out"; \
+		pandoc -f markdown -t latex -o content/$$out $$in --wrap=none --top-level-division=chapter; \
+	done

ask/book.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,85 @@
+\documentclass[11pt]{memoir}
+
+\def\watermarkloaded{0}
+
+\input{includes/variables}
+\input{includes/draft}
+\input{includes/frame}
+\input{includes/packages}
+\input{includes/pagelayout}
+\input{includes/geometry}
+\input{includes/font}
+\input{includes/title}
+\input{includes/secdiv}
+\input{includes/hyphenation}
+\input{includes/toc}
+
+\newcommand{\story}[2]{
+  \makeatletter
+  \null
+  \vfill
+  \part*{#1}
+  \begin{center}
+    \TitleFont\huge{#2}
+  \end{center}
+  \addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{#1}
+  \cftaddtitleline{toc}{section}{\itshape #2}{}
+  \vfill
+  \markboth{#2}{#1}
+  \makeatother
+}
+
+\begin{document}
+  \frontmatter
+  \pagestyle{empty}
+
+
+  \begin{flushright}
+  \null
+  \vfill
+  \large{\TitleFont{Ask.}}
+  
+  \TitleFont{A Post-Self Anthology}
+  \vfill
+  \end{flushright}
+
+  \cleardoublepage
+  \doublespacing
+
+  \begin{center}
+    \TitleFamily
+    \Huge{Ask.}
+
+    \vspace{3cm}
+
+    \large{ A Post-Self Anthology}
+    
+    \vfill
+  
+    \normalfont\small
+    Skunks\&  ---
+    The Lament ---
+    Andréa C. Mason ---
+    Alexandria Christina Leal
+  \end{center}
+  \thispagestyle{empty}
+
+  \newpage
+
+  \input{includes/copyright}
+
+  \newpage
+  \null
+  \cleardoublepage
+  
+  On cohost, readers are encouraged to \href{https://cohost.org/post-self/ask}{submit questions} to the various characters within the Post-Self setting, whether to the Odists, or to the wide variety of characters across all five books. These questions are answered by the characters themselves, with the authors of the answers provided along with them. These are collected here in one spot for easy reading, and this will be updated as questions are answered.
+
+  Please expect spoilers.
+  
+  \tableofcontents*
+
+  \mainmatter
+
+  \input{content/all}
+
+\end{document}

ask/content/fraught-devotions.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,20 @@
+\cleardoublepage
+\begin{quote}
+\itshape\Large
+Not counting those cults that tend to burn out quickly, have there been any home-grown religious or spiritual movements on the System?
+\end{quote}
+
+\cleardoublepage
+
+\subsection*{No Unknowable Spaces Echo My Words}
+
+\textbf{[Visibility exception: Dear, Also, The Tree That Was Felled of the Ode clade]}
+% Tomash
+
+There has always been a small undercurrent of reverence, acknowledgement, or worship—whichever concept one feels applies—directed at the System itself. This is understandable; humans have been seeing spirits in machines for quite some time. The complexity of the System, along with its tendency to read subconscious desire, have made it easier for people to take a mystical view of this dream floating in space. Additionally, the System is the world we live in, and so some of those who might have felt a connection to Mother Earth phys-side find themselves constructing shrines to their home cylinder here, even if most people would find that strange.
+
+More recently, while Sasha's decision to reveal RJ's history has been good for the clade as a whole, it has had the repercussion of giving System-worshippers a name and a face to converge around. The mythology nearly writes itself, does it not? The first upload dying to give the System life, planting eir soul into the circuits as ey did so\ldots I cannot say this is a false view of events.
+
+I am of several minds about this development. While I am pleased to see my dear friend's memory honored after all these years, the tendency for that to veer into deification disturbs me: I knew RJ, and ey was very much a person. Seeing one's remembered history compress into the future's myths is, I must acknowledge, a cost of immortality, though that understanding does not leave me inclined to visit any temples to RJ.
+
+So, to answer your question, the most notable religious tendency to arise on the System is devotion to the world-fennec, as ey is often called now. If you would know more of it, seek outside our clade.

ask/content/glossary.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,103 @@
+\subsubsection*{ACL}
+
+Originally short for ``Access Control List'', ACLs describe fine-grained permissions to access or use sims or the like. For instance, ACLs can be set such that only certain people may enter a sim, or to ensure that a cone of silence blocks sensorium messages
+
+\subsubsection*{Apygmaliophobia}
+
+The fear of uploading (literally, the fear of becoming an artificial copy of yourself). Coined in the late 2130s as the cost of uploading began to drop. Also occasionally used in relation to taskers who fear individuation.
+
+\subsubsection*{Artemis}
+
+An extrasolar probe bearing four races of uploaded consciousnesses. Discovered in 2346 by Tycho Brahe
+
+\subsubsection*{AVEC}
+
+Introduced in 2350, Audio/Visual Extrasystem Communication is the means by which those on the System may communicate with Earth via audio and visual transmission, rather than just text, something which was gently discouraged over the previous years to maintain a sense of mystique around sys-side. While Castor and Pollux also have this ability in theory, the bandwidth limitations of the Deep Space Network made it such that only still images can be sent.
+
+\subsubsection*{Clade}
+
+A collection of individuals all descended from the same uploaded consciousness through the process of forking. Clades are named after the root instance (e.g: the Bălan clade), but they can also choose their own name (e.g: the Ode clade).
+
+\subsubsection*{Cocladist}
+
+Used to refer to another member of the same clade. Up-, down-, and cross-tree are used to refer to the relation between the two cocladists: an up-tree instances is one that is descended from the individual, a down-tree instance is one from whom the individual is descended, and a cross-tree instance is one who shares the same down-tree instance but who isn't a descendent or an ancestor.
+
+\subsubsection*{Cone of silence}
+
+A mechanic on the System that prevents others from hearing what those within the cone are saying. As of 2349, it is also possible to opaque or blur the contents of the cone from the outside, and to prevent the transmission of sensorium messages.
+
+\subsubsection*{Conflict}
+
+During the process of merging, memories and ideas between the up- and down-tree instances will differ, if only by physical point of view. The more these instances diverge, the more these differences will cause conflicts, whether in how they remember things or how they think about things. During merging, this takes effort to rectify internally.
+
+\subsubsection*{Collective}
+
+A group of individuals who emulate the idea of clades phys-side, doing their best to maintain a tree-like hierarchy, share common names, and so on. Many also resent the System and refuse to upload.
+
+\subsubsection*{Dispersionista}
+
+An individual who enjoys individuation on the System. They will fork and allow their forks to diverge from themselves without any goal of letting them merge back down.
+
+\subsubsection*{Dissolution strategy}
+
+A set of general categories for how one approaches forking, merging, and individuation.
+
+\subsubsection*{Forking}
+
+The process of creating a complete copy of oneself. The new instance is exactly the same as the individual up to the point of forking, when they immediately begin to diverge, even if only in their physical points of view.
+
+\subsubsection*{Individuation}
+
+The slow process of an up-tree instance changing from a down-tree instance. The longer the two spend apart and the greater the differences in their experiences, the greater the individuation. Dispersionistas in particular encourage individuation, while taskers do their best to avoid it at all costs.
+
+\subsubsection*{Instance}
+
+A consciousness within the System, whether the original uploaded mind or one of their forks.
+
+\subsubsection*{Launch Vehicle}
+
+The two smaller copies of the original L5 point System launched in 2325 in opposite directions at a high enough velocity to leave the Solar System. Often abbreviated to LVs.
+
+\subsubsection*{Merging}
+
+The process of incorporating the memories (and thus personality changes formed by new memories) of an up-tree instance after they quit.
+
+\subsubsection*{Perisystem architecture}
+
+The infrastructure of data and tools for working within the System that serve as the foundation of life. The perisystem architecture contains the reputation market and clade listing, allows one to store information, retrieve data from libraries, control forking and ACLs, and much more.
+
+\subsubsection*{Phys-side/sys-side}
+
+Phys-side (rhymes with `fissile') refers to the physical world outside of the System, while sys-side refers to everything on the System.
+
+\subsubsection*{Quitting}
+
+The act of an instance ceasing to exist on the System. If the instance is a fork of an individual, the down-tree instance may merge back in the memories from the instance who quits (this set of memories can be given a priority, felt as an amount of adrenaline; at a high priority, this can be quite startling, while at a priority of zero, the down-tree instance won't even be notified of the quitting). If there is no down-tree instance --- as in the case of the root instance or an orphaned branch of a clade --- quitting is quite difficult, described as trying to wade through mud or push through a barrier.
+
+\subsubsection*{Reputation/reputation market/the exchange}
+
+In order to regulate resource usage on the hardware of the System, certain things cost reputation (denoted Ŕ), such as forking, as well as acquiring sim designs, clothing, and so on. These latter are exchanged on the reputation market (sometimes called the exchange). Reputation can be gained by creating things to put on the market or simply just interacting on the System: having conversations, making friends, and so on. When one first uploads, one is provided with a chunk of reputation to get started with.
+
+\subsubsection*{Root instance}
+
+The root instance is the original uploaded consciousness, the progenitor of the clade from which all other instances are forked.
+
+\subsubsection*{Signifier}
+
+The full name of an instance, including the first eight hexadecimal digits of the unique tag that identifies it as distinct from other individuals in the clade (our out of it) with the same name (e.g: Ioan Bălan\#5f39bccd7). This full signifier of an instance, along with all the clade information is available to anyone to check via the perisystem architecture, which makes truly impersonating someone else impossible.
+
+\subsubsection*{Sim}
+
+Refers to locations owned by an individual or set of individuals, whether it's as small as a single room or as large as a city. Hold-over language from the virtual reality aspects of the `net, where rooms or worlds were called 'sims'.
+
+\subsubsection*{System}
+
+Used to describe both the hardware to which consciousnesses are uploaded as well as the world that exists inside that hardware. Originally chosen as a vague name to prevent leaks while the project was still secret, it stuck through the centuries until a few years after the launch project, when each of the three Systems began to be called by specific names: Castor and Pollux for the launch vehicles and Lagrange for the System remaining near Earth.
+
+\subsubsection*{Tasker}
+
+An individual who specifically does not enjoy individuation. They will rarely fork, only doing so if they absolutely must, and then usually only to accomplish a task that requires more hands.
+
+\subsubsection*{Tracker}
+
+Between taskers and dispersionistas, trackers fork more often and are more willing to let individuation take place as their forks track specific projects or relationships, almost always merging back down.

ask/content/mansa.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,91 @@
+\cleardoublepage
+\begin{quote}
+\itshape\Large
+Beneath The Roots! What is one of the favorite sensoria artistry things you have done?
+\end{quote}
+
+\cleardoublepage
+
+\subsection*{And The End Of Memory Lies Beneath The Roots}
+% Seras
+
+Beneath the Roots: A challenging question. I like challenges. Centuries of art and work taunt me, looking through my mind's annals. The more intense and unique the experience, the more it sticks itself out to be chosen. Some of these I cannot describe to you in words, I can pass you them in sensoria, experiences that words water down to the point of uselessness, and that is not in your question's spirit. 
+
+What to pick among those I can describe? Do I pick what I did for my own joy or as craft for others? Do I pick my best work? The work I am most proud of? Which moved me the most? Happiest art? Sexiest? Most transgressive? Pastoral? Which one I repeat endlessly and joyfully? Which one I can never perform again? 
+
+No—one grabs me. A man came to me. He stood tall. His shoulders asserted their broadness, and his chest barreled. His skin rivaled his hair in dark brown. His jaw cut angular. His short beard took sharp form from the nib of a fountain pen. His irises glowed a rosy silver.  The deep green of his suit and shoes reminded me of brackish bay water in summer. No one intimidates me, but the singular kingliness awed me.
+
+Apollo gifted my cocladist Slow Hours with prophecy, not me, but each time a regal man (sometimes a woman, sometimes any other gender or none at all, but usually a man) found me, I flipped a coin in my head. If one side landed, it predicted the man flouted his stature, sought me for the most banal of status things, and I either ran them out the door or charged them enough rep to fill an ocean. I bore as quickly as they do. They do not grasp art nor inspire much of it beyond satire, which they take as literal and bore me beyond belief. However, when the coin landed on the other side, it reveals the face of this seeker. Some god carved him out of idealistic mountain peaks. Legends made men like this one. They I adored. They and I tread the same pilgrim's path. We soaked up so much of the world, we need wonders of incredible singularity to fulfill us. Stature found no purchase here, only a higher pull of tastes so refined they pushed the boundary and nuance of possible to the conceivable limit. So far, the prophetic coin succeeds every time. I heard it land and it shined blindingly on my inner eye.
+
+He spoke. His deep voice, booming but smooth, flooded my ears. ``I am worried my request of you is too simple. You are a busy craftswoman, and I would hate to unduly waste your time.''
+
+``A leaf flinging itself to the ground on an autumn wind ends an empire, with enough context,'' I said, ``so no presuming. What am I gifting you?''
+
+He took aback. ``I will pay you for this, I would not presume–''
+
+I spoke over him. ``Experiences and art pay for themselves, and if I need Rep after I am done, we sort it out then. Lay out my canvas! Position my subject, as my paints hunger and my brush quivers for action.''
+
+He nodded. ``Very well. I was in life an adventurous man. I saw and did so many things. The only thing that ever held me back was my body.''
+
+I said, ``We live, and still live, in the System, not an afterlife.''
+
+He smiled gently. ``I disagree, but in the end I don't think it matters. It was a life before this eternal one. I was bound by the limits of nutrition and genetics then. I can make a temple of myself, as I have here. My mother told me and my siblings were descended from a great king, who a millennia before had brought so much gold on a holy pilgrimage it devalued gold for the entire world.''
+
+I raised an eyebrow. ``Do you believe it?''
+
+He laughed. ``I think it's something a mother says to her children when they live in a shithole and she wants them to have bigger aspirations. It worked, certainly—those of us who survived got out and made some kind of life for ourselves—but I never truly believed it. Still, she called me little Mansa until the day I died. I think she wanted it to be true of me, in her own way. Perhaps I'm just indulging her even now.'' He waved a massive hand. ``I'm getting distracted. My request. As I've said, my body was frail, and I've been able to overcome all the limits that plagued me in the physical world but one: food allergies.''
+
+``Food cannot harm you here.''
+
+Dismissiveness shaped his expression. ``No, not physically, but I would hope you understand it's more complicated than that. I had \emph{many} allergies, my whole family did. Tests caught most of them, but some caught a few of my siblings instead, very young. One or two, in front of me. Even as I know they cannot hurt me I cannot bring myself to eat any of them.''
+
+I nodded, said nothing. It required no reply. 
+
+He continued, ``For all I love about this place, I hate that compulsions become so much more forceful here. This place gives the mind dangerous power, when memory is permanent and the past cannot fall away as it should. Do you have any allergies?''
+
+``None. If I did, they never held me back here.''
+
+``I think you know what I'm going to ask.''
+
+I crossed my arms. ``Say it.''
+
+``I want you to eat every dish I'm allergic to. I want you to eat it as a regular meal, because to you it is a regular meal. Pass the whole sensoria to me, taste and sense of touch and whatever idle thoughts pass through your head. Make it no occasion, not as a favor to me, make it as normal as taking a walk or going to bed, something you have done a million times without any conscious awareness of it.''
+
+``Why ask me to do what anyone could for you?''
+
+He scoffed. ``Do you think most people could keep that up for more than a few bites? What do you take me for? I sought you out because there is no one like you, And The End Of Memory Lies Beneath The Roots. You understand the senses like a sculptor understands stone. And not just sensations, but emotions, experiences, habits, physiology, posture\ldots When someone came to you, asking if they could feel the experience of being an entire chamber orchestra playing a piece, you didn't just find musicians and take on their experiences. You forked a hundred instances of yourself, all of you spent a decade learning to play every instrument in the piece, and with yourself as the conductor, passed the whole fucking experience to him live in the concert hall. I've seen films of The Expulsion of Blood. I've been to your Sensoria Cinema. I read your paper on the potential of real-time no-fork transformation, and why it still may be impossible. Listen, I've tried. I've tried therapy, having it forcefed to me, every other possibility you can think of probably falls a few short. Part of me has given up. I've made peace with all of this. And I think that if I can just experience one normal meal with all of them, whether or not it fixes my phobia, I can finally let this all go.''
+
+``Do you want me human?'' I asked.
+
+My words shocked him from his tunneling vision. ``I\ldots you'll do it? You seemed\ldots I don't know. Does it make a difference?''
+
+``I project to you every sensation. Those sensations come from the shape of me. You spend all your time human, yes? You carry no discomfort in your form.''
+
+``I spent so much time making this body I've never thought about another. I hadn't thought about this.'' he quieted a while. Then, ``I think it has to be what you're most comfortable as, not me.''
+
+``Skunk fits me. People expect skunk as well. Human functions but skunk suits.''
+
+``I want you fully relaxed. I want you not to think about me as you do it, or at least as little as possible, anyway.''
+
+``I will turn off my fur as well.''
+
+He looked at me strangely. I stopped sending him the subtle sensoria that iridesces my fur constantly. He observed for the first time a simple white skunk, medium height and medium wide, naked not sensually but visually, canvas not sculpture. Various white objects around the room shift-shined no longer, dull without perisystem parlor trickery. He pulled a chair and sat down. The chair groaned and he sighed back, his mind turning fast enough the eyes show it. I no longer stole his focus. He saw around him the room, mixed from artist home and loft and studio and conference room and kitchenette and foyer. I radiated him some calmness. Panic gripped many when they realized how I steered them, here. I gave his mind awareness of the glass of water next to him, placed hours ago. This process smooths business. Seekers bring expectations, and in turn I exceed them thoroughly. I dried him out, left thirsty impulse. He drank the water. What I could not calm the water washed out of him.
+
+I speak only actions. Act upon me. I act upon you. He acted. Stood. Filled the water glass. Handed it to me. Spoke without speaking or sensoria. I comprehended. I sipped the water. He accepted the sensoria, drank in my drinking. His face scrunched, nose twitched, Lips curled. His tongue licked the real teeth and the echo teeth. He sighed again. We understood each other. He followed me down the hallways and corridors and rooms of my studio workspace, following the nautilus shape further in to a drafting room. We planned. He conveyed his list of allergies, and it took half the draft table. It wondered me that he even survived to uploading.
+
+We spent hours, finding every little detail, then went into the world to source supplies. We hired cooks, picked a venue, fussed over furniture. We procured a table large but not too large, chairs comfortable but not too comfortable, plates wide and plain, and I stopped him now and again to remind him this was for his sake, not mine. He laughed. He said if I did not enjoy the whole affair just a little it was wasting time.
+
+He took on my senses two more times, enough to familiarize himself, but not enough to truly acclimate. I proposed a third, and he declined. He felt he stood at the line already. Two lines, in fact—the first obvious and the second unsaid. Professionalism needs upkeep, lest it decay. Clients fall for me, my work ennatures such, and I fall for them less often, but enough. Sometimes one side or the other or both wise up and walk away. Sometimes it turns ugly. Sometimes beauty and passion win out and I fork for them. Part of me stays with them, loving, fucking, cohabitating. Very, very few last—but I accept the merges every time, and my understanding expands into new territories of pain and heartbreak and disgust and sorrow and vicarious joy and that particular viscosity of air in a room where arguments happened. I did not want this here. He, in his own way, own understanding and history, did not want it either. That, in my experience, only raised the risk of it happening, and I still do not know how we hold out without.
+
+The day came. I dressed to memories, not sys-side, but as the distant skunk-not-skunk that uploaded us, back when we stood a fractured one instead of an ode's worth of people, and this choice of dress made itself from some incomprehensible pull. I fought not; the mind reasons below our reason. Beneath, you might say, the roots. I arrived with little fanfare. He sat already in the corner, out of view from me when I sat. I dropped all other sensoria, put a bead on him, pulled my chair\ldots 
+
+\ldots and I feasted.
+
+I ate normally at first, then with vigor. I kept my tether to my kingly companion but beyond that I lost myself in it. desperation did not grip me, but I starved myself a day or two beforehand, so fullness could not stop me. The food pleased the palate, but held no pretension, it remained food. I used utensils and abandoned them in equal measure. I appreciated flavors, I enjoyed cracking nuts in my molars, I licked sauce from messy paws and ice cream from metal spoons. I ate not for eating's sake, when any calorie is taken with disregard for what provides it, and I ate not for occasion or ritual or presentation, where serving the food and the food's composition, its narrative overwhelms nutrition entirely. I ate a hearty meal at the end of a workday, and I ate it ten times over. When the plates showed their bare faces and I slugged the last bowl of broth, I sat for a good 20 minutes before turning to my audience.
+
+He wept. Joy brings the most beautiful tears, and they ran over the soft mountainside of his face, finding new runs and waterfalls. Sometimes joy fountains so thick in these rivers that it camouflages as sorrow, but I watched many faces like this one. Whether or not I succeeded that moment I did not know then, but it mattered not. I made art, and remembered then more than ever why I made it. Do not ask me to say. It spurns words, coherence. It fountains when it comes. 
+
+I do not, as a rule, become engaged directly with any patrons. The cases before, as I said, I meet with forks, never the core of me. Some individuate. All of them do, but the ones that last do it as an art in itself. The me that is me that is root and what lies beneath it, keeps a distance. 
+
+But I, the me-est of mes, still meets with Mansa every week for lunch. We meet at my studio and his estate in alternating fashion. This week, he brought a delicious seafood quiche lorraine with spinach and mushrooms, a bread made with peanut butter and 9 grains, topped with sesame seeds. A fruit tart with a delicious blend of almonds and pecans, and a strawberry-banana-kale smoothie with a delightful little straw made out of carrot. People enjoy role-playing servants and staff at his palace, but I do not need to ask him to know he made all of this himself.
+

ask/content/subtle-failures.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,30 @@
+\cleardoublepage
+\begin{quote}
+\itshape\Large
+For Dear: Tell us about one or two of your less successful experiments in identity and instance art.
+\end{quote}
+
+\cleardoublepage
+
+\subsection*{Dear, Also, The Tree That Was Felled}
+% Skunks
+
+{\itshape
+Speed dating.
+
+I set up a series of events perhaps a century after I began this particular focus on instance art wherein I constructed a large circle of tables, twenty in all. Each of these tables was set up to seat two, and each was split in twain down the middle, for the chairs sitting along the inner side of the ring of tables sat upon a dais powered by subtle machinations.
+
+You see, I had invited twenty individuals to come and join me for a round of speed dating—them sitting along the outside and my various mes sitting within—and that dais was a clock. Within, a second hand ticked time inevitably forwards, and every fifth time that pointer reached zero, the dais would click forward as well, skipping each of me forward one space every five minutes.
+
+This was the mechanism of the speed dating: my ephemeral cocladists began all the same, and yet as we ate this lovely meal together, this hours-long evening, each was subtly changed by the conversations we had all the while. Every time we would come back to a person we had seen before, we had changed, just as they might have, by the ongoing conversations that we had had in the interim. We were aiming to build rapport over a series of ongoing periods, learning more about each other, while my various mes did their level best to keep information straight in our heads. We had begun to intuit, by this point, the endless depths of our memory, but I had yet to learn to control it with quite so much finesse. My experiments to date had been successful, yes, but accidentally so.
+
+Now, I say `ephemeral' above, but that is not how it worked. Of course it is not how it worked. I am clever, am I not? I am very clever! But I am not smart. No one has ever accused me of being burdened with an overabundance of wisdom. Many of us couples—not all, no, or even most, but many—did wind up pairing off and spending more time with each other. I know that, at least as of about systime 175, some of them have even entered a long-running relationship and remain together.
+
+An outstanding success, yes? Somehow, out of all of me, out of all of my cleverness, I succeeded admirably in my goal of toying with forking, toying with identity.
+
+An outstanding failure.
+
+There was me, standing primly as ever at the center of the dais atop the second hand, slowly turning around the middle of this circle once per minute, observing down along my haughtily lifted nose as the events proceeded. When it was done, when I had greeted all of the guests personally to learn their sentiments about this little dalliance of mine, I went home, feeling some hollow sense of pride.
+
+An outstanding failure because I am myself, yes, but I am also Rye and Praiseworthy, and thus I am also Michelle Hadje. Michelle, with all of her own failed relationships, all of her loneliness, all of her desire for comfort and companionship, and no matter how hard I tried to cherish my own loneliness as a prize, I never quite managed to succeed at that particular experiment.
+}

ask/content/sunk-cost.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,12 @@
+\cleardoublepage
+\begin{quote}
+\itshape\Large
+Though they serve no direct purpose on the System, so to speak, are the various implants that are so ubiquitous phys-side still common on System residents? Does deciding to dispense with them or leaving them on vary by demographic?
+\end{quote}
+
+\cleardoublepage
+
+\subsection*{What Gifts We Give We Give In Death}
+% Caela Argent
+
+I am familiar with one case of an individual electing to keep their implants post-upload\ldots and even as they adopted a form more suited to their inner self. Said individual refuses to be named, but would like to state for the record that they, quote, ``spent too much money on these damn things to give them up in this millennium".

ask/content/take-me-home.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,43 @@
+\cleardoublepage
+\begin{quote}
+\itshape\Large
+Odist who is eepy and neeby to sleeby.
+\end{quote}
+
+\cleardoublepage
+
+\subsection*{Time Is A Finger Pointing At Itself}
+% Boss
+
+There was a time when I was not this weary, withered thing I have become, a time when I was vibrant and vivacious and full of life. That vitality has since been drained from me, replaced by all the migraines and dissociation and vertigo of someone exactly as old as I am.
+
+I first coupled with Beholden in a haze of dance and drink. We took each other home and indulged in that secret affection that was then taboo, touched one another in those ways only cocladists can. It was the beginning of a serial fling, that the beginning of my first and only enduring romance, and that the very romance I carry with me twice over.
+
+Five centuries of fondness dwell within me. How many more if I count all those ephemeral forks, all the parallelized adventures, all the thousand parties I attended as three aspects of myself: A Finger Pointing, Unbidden, and Beholden? To know is to take inventory of all the memories accumulated in millennia of subjective time; to know is to spend millennia dwelling and adrift.
+
+I crave sensation. I wish to experience every lovely thing the world has to offer me and, having seen it all, spend my second spiral looking deeper than first impressions. Perhaps the third will be to savor the impermanence of it all, to prepare myself for my own inevitable \emph{mitat neshikah.}
+
+Temperance was never my style before the launches, but something in me broke that night. I sometimes feel the world around me fall apart into an incoherent haze of information. It is like looking at a dream taken literally without any of a dream's intuition or impression. It is the inspiration for \emph{Spiro kaj Simpleco,} a smattering of unintelligible imagery coupled with the infuriating sensation that there is some inaccessible meaning to be found.
+
+This restraining of my neophilia has made me a revenant of hedonism. I am at times gravely disturbed by that which I cannot indulge. I feel chains weighing heavily on my spirit, coercing me into a senile stupor where I would really rather bask in the Sun or get high with some friends or listen to Beholden's sampled music or find someone fun to bring home. Or all of these at once! That was always a beloved opportunity when it worked out.
+
+Instead I am caught up in thousand-yard stares as the world around me ceases to have meaning, falling in and out of presence as my mind grapples with overstimulation, lost in a haze of frustration and pain and discomfort. I feel as if swallowed up in a silence that relentlessly beats on my eardrums with abandon, driving me to a resigned sigh and the words, ``Please, take me home.''
+
+\subsection*{Beholden To The Heat Of The Lamps}
+% Skunks
+
+Yesterday, after spending a while talking on a bench in a lazy park, she said, ``Walk me home, please,'' and of course I did. It is so often me who hears ``Please, take me home.'' It is so often me who is confronted with A Finger Pointing's age.
+
+We are the same age, yes? We are both of Michelle Hadje, yes? We were both born in 2086, we both uploaded in 2117, we both lived latent in that one mind. Yes, she was forked first. Yes, I was forked from her some years later. I am precisely as old as she is in a very fundamental way.
+
+But I am also not. I have been the same 32 for centuries, now. 32 by numbers, of course; I have been many different people as my identity and the way in which I move through the world as evolved, but I still \emph{feel} 32.
+
+My love does not.
+
+I have had to learn a new way to love. I have had to keep an eye on just how rambunctious I am with her. She has asked me explicitly not to stop, but...well, some weeks back we lay in bed and, when I clutched at her in the heat of the moment, she pulled back in pain and overstimulation and began to cry, and then I began to cry for this unintentional pain I had caused to someone so dear, and our third was left in baffled panic.
+
+Her world will dissolve around her and I will take her gently by the arm to bring her to the couch or our bed and I will make her tea or sit beside her in kind-but-fretful silence or go lay down on the couch in my music room for an hour.
+
+Do not get me wrong, I remain absolutely head-over-heels for this woman. I am going nowhere. I will \emph{always} be by her side.
+
+But on those nights or afternoons or mornings when she speaks of the sudden and painless kiss of death, when she clenches her eyes shut and the blanket is too heavy, when even my presence is too overstimulating and I go and lay down on my couch, I am at my most exhausted.

ask/content/the-party.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,57 @@
+\cleardoublepage
+\begin{quote}
+\itshape\large
+To any and all Odists, Do you have any unofficial long-running instances at some The Party? If so, what names have those instances taken (if they have)?
+\end{quote}
+
+\cleardoublepage
+
+\subsection*{And The End Of Memory Lies Beneath The Roots}
+% Seras
+
+I constantly seek new experiences and feelings and emotions, so as to keep my life's work fresh and exciting. My forks range everywhere in disguise or openly, and I step out in their place, gathering and consolidating in me, constantly reviving the soil that is ``And Memory Lies Beneath the Roots''. 
+
+ My cocladist I Must Set No Stones Between Me And My Actions constantly feeds me the hip and new around the System, and no gift parallels when he informed me of the party. 
+
+Those kids know how to get deliciously fucked up. Few if any sources touch the amount The Party taught and teaches me. 
+
+My delightful double, The Life of The Party Lies Beneath The Roots, sends me endless notes, the occasional fork-and-merge, and a dreadful new kind of hangover every few months or so to keep me on my toes. I hate the crashes and withdrawls. They delight me to no end. So intense, these new ones!
+
+The Party costs me instances at a hilarious rate. The counter on my desk ticks up every time one of me wanders into it and celebrates themselves right out of existence. They crash or subconsciously quit, hitting new highs and lows constantly. Party Roots, as she calls herself, keeps tabs on these poor flies in the honey trap as they go through, and mails me ``highlight reels''. The one who stole top spot played a saxophone for three years straight without even taking a breath, then simply dissolved when she stopped. No one found a core dump. I would have killed for that merge, can you even imagine? Three fucking years! Apparently many cladists, including a number of my own instances, still try to break the record, but the two month mark breaks many a musician's back.
+
+Party Roots does me great service, for I know if I myself ever go to The Party, I will not come back, and I am not cashing out yet. My queue of eager patrons, fans, patients and commissioners extend well into the next century, and I leave no one behind.
+
+\subsection*{Beholden To The Heat Of The Lamps}
+% Skunks
+
+The Party is as up my alley as any one thing might be, though for reasons different from Party Roots (although holy shit, the sheer number of samples I took from that sax solo before she escaped saxsara is nearly ten times that of any other source of samples in my library). 
+
+I attended one of the first The Parties way back in the early days. I spent a few days there, counting that enough time to enjoy before returning home to my partner, exhausted and sated. I had had a good time, but we were busier back then, with so many of us working at Au Lieu Du Rêve full time, and forking was not quite so cheap. I came home with a rollicking headache more from the noise than the hangover (though \emph{also} from the hangover, of course) and fell back into work the next day after I recovered.
+
+Cue me, three months later, figuring I would go and check if The Party was still going—after all, I had made good friends there!—only to find the sim mostly abandoned. A few stragglers were there, noodling around, drawing on the walls, but the sim was all but silent.
+
+``Did The Party end?'' I asked one. ``I thought the goal was to run it for at least a year.''
+
+They smiled to me dreamily, clearly caught up either in some internal music, the throes of some party drug, or both. ``Ohhh, nah, it just moved two stops over.''
+
+``\,`Two stops'?''
+
+``Yeah, yeah. Increment the tag by two and search the directory until you find a public sim that matches.''
+
+I will admit to being caught off guard by this. It was such a delightfully stupid scheme. There were starting to be enough public sims by now that this was actually becoming possible. I checked the sim's name—Partybox#1159aacd—and ticked up the tag by two.
+
+There on the listing were five public sims with the tag #1159aacf. The second one down made me laugh. The Dankest Dungeon#1159aacf. Fuck yeah. This was going to be \emph{fantastic.} 
+
+If this was going to be the way of things, a dedicated fork would be necessary. I renamed her Beholden To The Flow Of The Crowds and stepped back home, eagerly awaiting the first merge.
+
+``Hey, thanks,'' Flow said.
+
+``Yeah, yeah, no problem!'' Their smile widened to a grin. ``Heyyy, you look soft. Can I have a hug?''
+
+Flow laughed, gave them their hug, and stepped back to The Party.
+
+She sends me merges every few months, and will occasionally reconcile to pool our work on various bits of music, since we both learn plenty while she is away. Every few years, she will get tired and either go live with someone she has met along the way—she was even married once, I believe—or will simply merge back down, only to reappear down the line some years later to head back out, or perhaps she will get frustrated. She punched an attendee once, and while everyone else agreed that they were deserving of such, she took that as her cue to step away for a bit.
+
+She performs at the various The Parties she has been to, sometimes set up on instruments (she played drums along with Party Roots#Sax for a while), sometimes running an electronic music set for days on end, but most often, just keeping the music going in her head and letting anyone and everyone ride along on her sensorium to listen along with.
+
+It has been one of my longest-running long-lived forks, even if her existence is not constant. The bad times are vanishingly small in the face of how much of that time is absolutely lovely.

ask/content/unfortunately.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,42 @@
+\cleardoublepage
+\begin{quote}
+\itshape\Large
+Odist who still remembers (unfortunately)
+\end{quote}
+
+\cleardoublepage
+
+\subsection*{Which Offers Heat And Warmth In Fire}
+% Warmth
+
+When Dear, Also, The Tree That Was Felled, my down-tree, sought to forget the Name, I was a fork it left behind in the event that its attempt would render it unwhole in some way. This endeavor was a great feat, mind; it asked of itself something that, as far as we knew, had never been done before.
+
+In this time, it was still a skunk; it was still a woman. It was during this process that Dear became what it became, that excitable fennec whose tongue was sharp as a knife. I do not come from this Dear; I come from the Dear before, the Dear who still remembered the Name, the Dear who \emph{decided} to forget the name through this great effort.
+
+So I sat and read my book and waited while it took a walk. I was there for some hours, contemplating what it might become—what \emph{I} might become, really—and the significance to me of the Name. I will not betray Dear's confidence by confiding a why that I did not ultimately embrace, but suffice it to say that I had second thoughts.
+
+Dear did not. When it returned, beaming, now a fennec, its pronoun markers changed, its poise somewhere between Michelle's willingness and Praiseworthy's enigma and Rye's attentiveness, I saw someone who was me only hours ago. I saw this someone and knew if I quit I would become it.
+
+I would become it and, as it informed me it was satisfied, forget the Name. After these hours alone with my thoughts, I looked upon this too-familiar visage, this haunting echo of a ghost I always felt, and felt \emph{dysphoric}. Some of what it became was appealing; I liked that it was smaller, that it leaned into a sort of creature-queerness. Those were traits I later embraced myself.
+
+But there was this \emph{irreverence} that rankled. Its body had been made into a transgression. It was incredibly hot to think about the likes of True Name or Qoheleth meeting it and averting their eyes as if from some sudden nakedness. Dear's very existence was a kind of nakedness we were \emph{all} all too familiar with. And I would rather have ownership—\emph{sole} ownership—over my identity.
+
+So I smiled, set my book aside, stood, bowed, and stepped from the sim. I made a point not to speak with Dear for some months lest I corrupt my own intention. I notified it, of course, that I intended to take on the name Which Offers Heat And Warmth In Fire, but I spent most of that time feeling a kind of near-regret.
+
+One method to make a difficult decision between two mutually exclusive options is to first flip a coin; when it comes up one or the other, you may find yourself relieved or suddenly overcome with regret. It is in this relief or regret that you learn which you most want. In that time sitting in wait for Dear's return, I learned I did not want to forget; \emph{I} wanted to move \emph{past} the Name.
+
+And I did, in time. I started to learn about construct design; I recalled how, in those hazy days when the System was young, there was a great need to recreate those things we take for granted. Who will reinvent the apple, the chive, the plate of lasagna? A cladist still feels hunger if they do not tune their sensorium elsewise, but the System did not come pre-loaded with ingredients or meals; someone had to \emph{make} them.
+
+I was late to this party; I was forked in Systime 57, and all the heavy lifting had already been done. So I decided I would find those who remembered less widely-known foods, particularly obscure fruits, and interviewed them in the hopes of recreating these memories as best I could. I met all kinds during this time, but also Qoheleth, for I took an interest in archaic fruits as well. It was through him that I first brushed shoulders with My.
+
+She became a sort of gender role-model for me, demonstrating the appeal to me of trans transgression, of being deliberately difficult to define. Why difficult? For her, it is confrontation; she is what she is, and she will not hide herself whether it is clear or unclear what, exactly, she is. She is a \emph{trans} woman; a woman who is, pointedly, trans.
+
+And I was that skunk who was then neuter, like Dear. Some years later, I became this skunk whose identity sloshes from phrase to phrase between queer woman and creature-queer and nonbinary. Some find it annoying to perform gender with me in embracing the cycling of pronouns that I have settled into, and it is in that very transgression that I find my euphoria.
+
+In this euphoria, I reclaimed my identity from that need that led Dear to do what it did. I became comfortably ambivalent towards the Name in terms of self. But there was still this implicit relationship that all Odists must grapple with more or less, and it was through construct artistry that I came to terms with that gut-wrenching memory.
+
+That memory of our friend who was taken from us for nothing. Of our friend who was so traumatized by what happened to em that the void never stopped calling. Of our friend with whom we dance in every waking moment—in our dreams too, really—and with whom the act of forking or creating a construct is a kind of wordless conversation.
+
+I could not face that memory every single time I made a thing or played with Motes or forked to solve some scheduling conflict. There is, frankly, no compelling plot here; I spent decades leaning into this art with the intent to find my own way, to lean not on this unspoken presence. No particular words of wisdom, no definite experiences showed me the answer.
+
+One day, I realized my thoughts drifted elseward without much effort. I thought about em when I thought about em, not just because I was forking or dreaming something into being. I realized this and I breathed a sigh of relief.

ask/includes/_draft.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,4 @@
+%%% Watermark for draft
+\usepackage{draftwatermark}
+\SetWatermarkLightness{0.9}
+\def\watermarkloaded{1}

ask/includes/_frame.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,2 @@
+%%% Show frame around layouts
+\PassOptionsToPackage{showframe}{geometry}

ask/includes/_geometry-letter.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,14 @@
+% page sizes for letter with crop marks
+\usepackage[
+  letterpaper,
+  layoutvoffset=1.25in,
+  layouthoffset=1.5in,
+  layoutwidth=5.5in,
+  layoutheight=8.5in,
+  vmargin=0.5in,
+  outer=0.5in,
+  inner=0.75in,
+  includeheadfoot,
+  twoside,
+  showcrop
+]{geometry}

ask/includes/_geometry-trade.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,17 @@
+% page sizes for trade paperback
+\usepackage[
+  paperwidth=5.5in,
+  paperheight=8.5in,
+  layoutwidth=5.5in,
+  layoutheight=8.5in,
+  vmargin=0.5in,
+  outer=0.5in,
+  inner=0.75in,
+  includeheadfoot,
+  twoside,
+  showcrop
+]{geometry}
+\ifdefined\SetWatermarkHorCenter
+  \SetWatermarkHorCenter{3in}
+  \SetWatermarkVerCenter{4.5in}
+\fi

ask/includes/copyright.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,53 @@
+\singlespacing
+\thispagestyle{empty}
+\null
+\vfill
+
+\begin{center}
+\noindent {\DisplayFont Other works in the Post-Self universe}
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\textbf{The Post-Self Cycle}
+
+\emph{Qoheleth}
+
+\emph{Toledot}
+
+\emph{Nevi'im}
+
+\emph{Mitzvot}
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\emph{Post-Self: A Tabletop Roleplaying Game Powered by the Apocalypse}
+\end{center}
+
+\vfill
+
+{\parindent0pt
+
+The Post-Self universe is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License. To view a copy of this license, visit \mbox{\emph{creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/}} or send a letter to Creative Commons, PO Box 1866, Mountain View, CA
+
+\vspace{1ex}
+
+For more information, including ways to use the setting for your own works, see \emph{post-self.ink}
+
+\vspace{1ex}
+
+ISBN: \ISBN
+
+\vspace{1ex}
+
+\textsc{\FullTitle}
+
+\vspace{1ex}
+
+Stories copyright \copyright\ 2022--2023 by their author.
+
+\vspace{1ex}
+
+This book uses the fonts Gentium Book Plus, {\DisplayFont Gotu}, and {\JP Noto Serif}.
+}%\parindent0pt
+
+\clearpage

ask/includes/draft.tex

@@ -0,0 +1 @@
+%

ask/includes/font.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,25 @@
+%%% Font
+% Uncomment and modify to your font specs
+% Gotu
+% Nanum Brush Script
+% Grechen Fuemen
+% Kalam
+
+ \usepackage{fontspec}
+ \setmainfont{Gentium Book Plus}
+ \newfontfamily\TitleFamily{Gotu}
+ \newfontface\TitleFont{Gotu}
+ \newfontfamily\DisplayFamily{Gotu}
+ \newfontface\DisplayFont{Gotu}
+ \newfontface\JP{Noto Serif CJK JP}
+ \newfontface\TickTockFont{Tom's New Roman}
+
+ \newcommand\ticktock[1]{
+ \begin{flushright}
+ \textbf{\emph{#1}}
+ \end{flushright}
+ 
+ }
+% 
+% \usepackage[xspace]{ellipsis}
+% \renewcommand{\ellipsisgap}{0.1em}

ask/includes/frame.tex

@@ -0,0 +1 @@
+%

ask/includes/geometry.tex

@@ -0,0 +1 @@
+\input{includes/_geometry-trade.tex}

ask/includes/hyphenation.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,8 @@
+\hyphenation{
+\AuthorFirst
+\AuthorLast
+\Title
+\Subtitle
+Caspar
+Sunspear
+}

ask/includes/packages.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,21 @@
+%%% Resets
+% memoir defines footruleskip, we want fancyhdr's
+\let\footruleskip\undefined
+\DisemulatePackage{setspace}
+
+%%% Hyperref warning suppression
+% I want math symbols, hyperref complains
+% must be before hyperref included
+\usepackage{silence}
+\WarningFilter[pdftoc]{hyperref}{Token not allowed in a PDF string}
+\ActivateWarningFilters[pdftoc]
+
+%%% Package imports not needing expansion
+\usepackage{graphicx}
+\usepackage[hidelinks]{hyperref}
+\usepackage{setspace}
+\usepackage{xifthen}
+\usepackage{verse}
+\usepackage{tocloft}
+\usepackage{multicol}
+\usepackage[normalem]{ulem}

ask/includes/pagelayout.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,50 @@
+%%% Headers and page styles
+\usepackage[pagestyles]{titlesec}
+\usepackage{fancyhdr}
+\setlength{\headheight}{15.2pt}
+
+% ourbook style with fancy headers and chapter headings
+\fancypagestyle{ourbook}{
+  % headers
+  \renewcommand{\headrulewidth}{0pt}
+  \renewcommand{\printchaptername}{}
+  \renewcommand{\chapternamenum}{}
+  \renewcommand{\printchapternum}{}
+  \renewcommand{\printchaptertitle}[1]{%
+  \TitleFont\huge ##1}
+  \setsecheadstyle{\TitleFont}
+  \renewcommand{\partnamefont}{\DisplayFont\huge}
+  \renewcommand{\partnumfont}{\DisplayFont\huge}
+  \renewcommand{\parttitlefont}{\DisplayFont\Huge}
+  \renewcommand{\chaptername}{}
+  \renewcommand{\thechapter}{}
+  \setlength{\parskip}{0pt}
+  \fancyhf{}
+  \fancyhf[FRO,FLE]{\thepage}
+  \fancyhf[HRO]{\DisplayFont\leftmark}
+  \fancyhf[HLE]{\DisplayFont\rightmark}
+}
+  \nopartblankpage
+  \makeatletter
+  \renewcommand*{\beforepartskip}{\null\vfill\thispagestyle{empty}}
+  \renewcommand*{\afterpartskip}{\par\vskip1cm%
+  \@afterindentfalse\@afterheading}
+  \makeatother
+
+% plain style with only page num
+\fancypagestyle{plain}{
+  \fancyhf{}
+  \renewcommand{\headrulewidth}{0pt}
+  \renewcommand{\footrulewidth}{0pt}
+  %\fancyhf[FRO,FLE]{\thepage}
+}
+
+% single space after periods
+\frenchspacing
+
+% Attempt justification at all costs
+\sloppy
+
+% Widows and orphans
+\widowpenalty=10000
+\clubpenalty=10000

ask/includes/pretitle.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,8 @@
+\thispagestyle{empty}
+\null
+\vfill
+\begin{center}
+  \TitleFont\FullTitle
+\end{center}
+\vfill
+\cleardoublepage

ask/includes/secdiv.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,8 @@
+%%% Section divider
+% don't forget to \noindent the line after!
+%\renewcommand\rule[2]{$\star$}
+\newcommand\secdiv{
+  \begin{center}
+    $\star$
+  \end{center}
+}

ask/includes/title.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,4 @@
+%%% Title page
+\title{\TitleFont\FullTitle}
+\author{\AuthorFull}
+\date{}

ask/includes/toc.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,11 @@
+%%% ToC munging
+% Remove ToC header
+\renewcommand{\contentsname}{}
+\renewcommand{\cftdot}{\small{$\cdot$}}
+\renewcommand{\cftchapterdotsep}{3}
+\renewcommand{\cftsectiondotsep}{10000}
+% start toc at top of page
+\renewcommand*\tocheadstart{}{}
+% space entries
+%\setlength\cftparskip{0pt}
+%\setlength{\cftbeforechapskip}{0pt}

ask/includes/variables.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,18 @@
+\def\Title{Ask}
+\def\Subtitle{A Post-Self Anthology}
+\def\FullTitle{\Title: \Subtitle}
+\def\AuthorFirst{}
+\def\AuthorLast{}
+\def\AuthorFull{\AuthorFirst\ \AuthorLast}
+\def\Illustrator{p sebae}
+
+\def\Edition{First}
+\def\EditionsList{10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1}
+\def\Year{2017}
+
+\def\ISBN{XXX-X-XXXXXX-XX-X}
+
+\def\Publisher{PUBLISHER}
+\def\PublisherEmail{publisher@example.com}
+\def\PublisherURL{example.com}
+\def\PublisherLocation{City, STATE}