Final pass on motes, Marsh anthology

motes-played/content/001.tex

@@ -34,7 +34,7 @@ One by one, the various Moteses quit until \#Root was the only one remaining. Sh
 
 ``Lights, Dot.''
 
-Motes jolted at the sound of A Finger Pointing's voice from the couch beside the door. ``Oh! Yeah!'' she said, forking off one more ephemeral instance to go flip the switch in the studio, make some spooky noises, then quit, all while \#Root climbed up to join her down-tree instance on the couch, slouching against her side.
+Motes jumped at the sound of A Finger Pointing's voice from the couch beside the door. ``Oh! Yeah!'' she said, forking off one more ephemeral instance to go flip the switch in the studio, make some spooky noises, then quit, all while \#Root climbed up to join her down-tree instance on the couch, slouching against her side.
 
 ``All done painting?'' Beholden asked, the other, larger skunk not yet looking up from where she was slicing a lime into wedges at the bar.
 
@@ -62,11 +62,11 @@ Motes blew a raspberry in response. ``Yes please!''
 
 Another raspberry.
 
-Beholden poured a tall gin fizz to share with herself and her partner-\emph{cum}-cocladist, lime muddled with sugar and cardamom bitters, gin and soda water. Then she made a second glass sans alcohol and turned to lean back against the edge of the bar, drink in one paw and bottle of gin in the other, finally facing the two cuddled up on the couch. She `absentmindedly' started to top up the glass from the bottle. ``Oh, \emph{right!} You said virgin,'' she said, mock surprise in her voice. Gin continued to pour. She winked to the skunklet. ``Oh no. \emph{Oh no!} That is \emph{way} too much! Motes! You had better not drink this!''
+Beholden poured a tall gin fizz to share with herself and her partner-\emph{cum}-cocladist, lime muddled with sugar and cardamom bitters, gin and soda water. Then she made a second glass sans alcohol and turned to lean back against the edge of the bar, drink in one paw and bottle of gin in the other, finally facing the two cuddled up on the couch. She `absentmindedly' started to top up the glass from the bottle. ``Oh, \emph{right!} You said virgin,'' she said, mock surprise in her voice. Alcohol continued to pour. She winked to the skunklet. ``Oh no. \emph{Oh no!} That is \emph{way} too much! Motes! You had better not drink this!''
 
 They all laughed.
 
-Beholden padded over to join them on the couch. She took a long sip from one of the glasses before passing it over to A Finger Pointing, handing the other over to Motes. ``We are headed out to a pub tonight with a few others, my dear. Jazz and burgers and too much whiskey.''
+Beholden padded over to join them on the couch. She took a long sip from one of the glasses before passing it over to A Finger Pointing, handing the other over to Motes. ``We are headed out to a pub tonight with a few others, kiddo. Jazz and burgers and too much whiskey.''
 
 ``Is that why you are all dressed up?'' Motes asked, her paint-spattered overalls contrasting with both of their all-black ensembles.
 
@@ -124,7 +124,7 @@ She poked Motes in the belly. ``Here you are, fat little \mbox{skunk--''}
 
 Motes snorted. ``You are also a fat skunk, though.''
 
-``Complaining? I thought not. You have fallen asleep on my belly more than once. Here you are talking about a plate of salt and carbs while I am looking forward to a salad the size of my head and a burger that is also mostly salad.''
+``Complaining? I thought not. You have fallen asleep on my belly more than once this week. Here you are talking about a plate of salt and carbs while I am looking forward to a salad the size of my head and a burger that is also mostly salad.''
 
 ``I \emph{also} like those things, though,'' Motes countered. ``Like, I would eat the heck out of a salad right about now.''
 
@@ -144,13 +144,13 @@ Motes snorted. ``You are also a fat skunk, though.''
 
 The playful banter continued, and while she would occasionally poke her snout in to make a quip of her own, Motes largely just savored her drink, bitter and sour and sweet, and the comfort of being nestled in between her two cocladists, thinking.
 
-She thought about the more than two centuries that had passed since A Finger Pointing had forked into the other nine instances of her stanza, that point when Motes had become Motes. She thought about the time that had followed when she remained essentially the version of A Finger Pointing who had taken up responsibility for sets and props, about those slow years of individuation and differentiation. She thought about the way she had started to toy with her appearance, her actions, her approach to life, and how she had steered herself into this focus on play to reclaim a childhood that had, yes, been pleasant enough, and yet which could have been so much more, now that she had all the time in the world. Something to live intentionally. Something to savor.
+She thought about the more than two centuries that had passed since A Finger Pointing had forked into the other nine instances of her stanza, that point when Motes had become Motes. She thought about the time that had followed when she remained essentially the version of A Finger Pointing who had taken up responsibility for sets and props, about those slow years of individuation and differentiation. She thought about the way she had started to toy with her appearance, her actions, her approach to life, and how she had steered herself into this focus on play to reclaim a childhood that had, yes, been pleasant enough, and yet which could have been so much \emph{more,} now that she had all the time in the world. Something to live intentionally. Something to savor.
 
 It had not always been smooth, to be sure. The compromises she made early on far outnumbered the ways in which she was earnest to herself.
 
-She did not blame A Finger Pointing, never once. She, of all those in her life, was trustworthy. Motes had once \emph{been} her, after all, yes? They had had their spats—more than a few—as would be the case between any parent and child—as would be the case between any two individuals. She had had spats with more than just Ma. She and Beholden had fought, and at times bitterly, and it was at those times that Bee's guardianship had felt most precarious. It had never disappeared, but it had verged well into the realm of sister—the realm of Slow Hours—or bestest friend~--- that of of Warmth In Fire—and away from guardian, away from that parental love.
+She did not blame A Finger Pointing for suggesting such compromises, never once. She, of all those in her life, was trustworthy. Motes had once \emph{been} her, after all, yes? They had had their spats—more than a few—as would be the case between any parent and child—as would be the case between any two individuals. She had had spats with more than just Ma. She and Beholden had fought, and at times bitterly, and it was at those times that Bee's guardianship had felt most precarious. It had never disappeared, but it had verged well into the realm of sister—the realm of Slow Hours—or bestest friend~--- that of of Warmth In Fire—and away from guardian, away from that parental love.
 
-She did not remember what the spats were about. She could, yes, her memory was as perfect as anyone else's on the three Systems. But she would not, because that was not the point. The point was that she was Motes. She was their Dot, their \emph{Dóttir.} She was the kid, and they were the grown-ups who loved her.
+She did not remember what the spats were about. She could, yes, her memory was as imperfectible as anyone else's on the three Systems. But she would not, because that was not the point. The point was that she was Motes. She was their Dot, their \emph{Dóttir.} She was the kid, and they were the grown-ups who loved her.
 
 And so their protectiveness made sense, yes? They wanted to keep her safe, yes? They just could not help but keep \emph{themselves} safe as well, yes?
 
@@ -226,7 +226,7 @@ Dry Grass laughed. \emph{``You had me at maccy-chee. Shall I come over now?''}
 
 No sooner had the message completed than Dry Grass blinked into being on the default arrival point over by the front door.
 
-Motes finished shoving the tray of salad ingredients up onto the counter and zipped over to her cross-tree cocladist, all but launching herself into her arms. Dry Grass caught her, letting her momentum swing the two of them around in a circle. ``Hey kiddo! Way to go almost knocking me over.''
+Motes finished shoving the tray of salad ingredients up onto the counter and zipped over to her cross-tree cocladist, all but launching herself into her arms. Dry Grass caught her, letting her momentum swing the two of them around in a circle. ``Hey little one! Way to go almost knocking me over.''
 
 ``I am not sorry!'' Motes said and just as quickly dashed away and back to the kitchen. ``Help me cut up everything. I am going to nick a claw, I know it.''
 
@@ -274,7 +274,7 @@ Motes frowned and pulled apart the logic, doodling pink spirals onto her fingerp
 
 ``Is this that stupid optics thing again?''
 
-``I do not know. Certainly in part, though it is also in part because, if you are her, then you could not be her child. You could not be a different age.'' She hesitated, then added, ``It means that she has the capability to become like you, yes? That all of us have\pagebreak\ that within us, yes?''
+``I do not know. Certainly in part, though it is also in part because, if you are her, then you could not be her child. It is another form of an intraclade relationship.'' She hesitated, then added, ``It means that she has the capability to become like you, yes? That all of us have\pagebreak\ that within us, yes?''
 
 ``Oh god,'' Motes said, laughing. ``I cannot imagine Hammered Silver as a kid. She would be one of those prissy, stuck up girls who is the daughter of the PTA president or something.''
 

motes-played/content/002.tex

@@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ Tonight, Motes played in hedonism. A night at a restaurant out on the town, wher
 
 Tonight, she played drunk: a beer with the dogs, drinks made fizzy with champagne and sweet with floral liqueurs at a pop-up bar, then fruity drinks served in tall glasses with taller straws at the venue before the headliner started, the thump of the bass from the opener echoing up through her feet, pressing at her chest, leaving a warmth in her belly that verged on sensual. Tonight, between sets or whenever she felt like she needed a break, she would waft back to the bar and order a vodka soda or some other ridiculous drink meant more to hydrate than taste good.
 
-Tonight, Motes played as hard as ever, letting that warmth that was building low in her belly be her guide as she latched onto a dancing partner, a solidly built mustelid of some sort—an otter? A fisher?—who wound his way through the crowd in a fluid motion that was dancelike even when the music had stopped. It was a night for letting him dance closer and closer as the sets progressed, a night for letting him press a pill to her lips and beneath her tongue. It was a night for letting him push his whiskery muzzle up beneath her chin, letting him show her just how sharp his teeth were against her throat, for pressing close enough to feel just how thoroughly he shared in her excitement.
+Tonight, Motes played as hard as ever, letting that warmth that was building low in her belly be her guide as she latched onto a dancing partner, a solidly built mustelid of some sort—an otter? A mink?—who wound his way through the crowd in a fluid motion that was dancelike even when the music had stopped. It was a night for letting him dance closer and closer as the sets progressed, a night for letting him press a pill to her lips and beneath her tongue. It was a night for letting him push his whiskery muzzle up beneath her chin, letting him show her just how sharp his teeth were against her throat, for pressing close enough to feel just how thoroughly he shared in her excitement.
 
 Tonight, she let him take her home. Tonight she let him pin her to the bed, paw on her shoulder and teeth on her throat. Tonight, she let him draw blood.
 
@@ -16,7 +16,7 @@ They sat and talked, legs dangling through the bars of the balcony's railing ove
 
 They added one more to that number before they slept.
 
-And in the morning, she woke pressed against him, limbs all wrapped together and the satiny subdermal waves of sensation still lingering. She dismissed it easily and slowly disentangled herself from the still sleeping otter-or-fisher—mink?—and started to pull stuff from the exchange for breakfast. Cold, cured meats and fish. Cold cheeses. Cold vegetables, fresh and pickled. Dense, nutty bread. Small pastries.
+And in the morning, she woke pressed against him, limbs all wrapped together and the satiny subdermal waves of sensation still lingering. She dismissed it easily and slowly disentangled herself from the still sleeping otter-or-mink—fisher?—and started to pull stuff from the exchange for breakfast. Cold, cured meats and fish. Cold cheeses. Cold vegetables, fresh and pickled. Dense, nutty bread. Small pastries.
 
 They sat on the balcony once more, out in the bright sun, and ate their breakfast together, talking of only the small things.
 
@@ -82,7 +82,7 @@ An eloquent shrug was the reply.
 
 ``Alright, dear. I shall look away.''
 
-Motes shimmied out of the blouse and folded it neatly on the stage before forking into her usual, smaller, soft-furred self once more. Younger, as well, back to that comfortable, comforting expression of youth. ``Okay,'' she said once she was done, rolling around to lay on her belly and poke her snout at one of the piles of paper. ``What are you working on, anyway?''
+Motes shimmied out of the blouse and folded it neatly on the stage before forking into her usual, smaller, soft-furred self once more. Once more, she was clothed in familiar corduroys and a bright blue t-shirt, leaving behind so flower-child a vibe. Younger, as well, back to that comfortable, comforting expression of youth. ``Okay,'' she said once she was done, rolling around to lay on her belly and poke her snout at one of the piles of paper. ``What are you working on, anyway?''
 
 Sasha smiled, tipped her clipboard forward to let the skunk see the stage diagram. ``Blocking. Planning. Memorization.''
 
@@ -148,7 +148,7 @@ The smaller skunk giggled helplessly, slouching down until she was able to use S
 
 ``So Hammered Silver is upset that Ma has principles,'' Motes said flatly. ``Okay. Got it. Good good, good good good good. Wonderful.''
 
-She laughed. ``Yes, apparently. A Finger Pointing had some tense meetings with her early on when it became clear—at least within the clade—that she and Beholden were in a relationship, but that tenseness became the norm when you started to poke your little snout--'' She tapped at Motes's nose-tip, getting a smile and a chirp. ``--out into the world, which led to a tacit agreement that they were essentially just meeting up to collect data on their respective stanzas, and then only when A Finger Pointing agreed not to talk about you.''
+She laughed. ``Yes, apparently. A Finger Pointing had some tense meetings with her early on when it became clear—at least within the clade—that she and Beholden were in a relationship, but that tension became the norm when you started to poke your little snout--'' She tapped at Motes's nose-tip, getting a smile and a chirp. ``--out into the world, which led to a tacit agreement that they were essentially just meeting up to collect data on their respective stanzas, and then only when A Finger Pointing agreed not to talk about you.''
 
 Motes fell silent for a long minute, then two, and eventually rolled onto the other side so that she could bury her face against Sasha's side. ``Well, that makes me feel like garbage,'' she mumbled.
 

motes-played/content/003.tex

@@ -28,7 +28,7 @@ Rebounding off a tree and wincing at a sudden spike of pain in her shoulder, she
 
 There, a flash of fur amid the trees. A flash of fur and sudden, wild laughter.
 
-She picked up the speed into an all out sprint. Her pursuer darted off at sharp angle and, as it did so, a brick wall spiraled into being before her, only a few feet on a side, and yet directly in her path, a few paces away. She had just enough time to fork mid-stride and let the new instance continue in her sprint while the old crashed into the wall with a thud, then quit.
+She picked up the speed into an all out sprint. Her pursuer darted off at sharp angle and, as it did so, a brick wall spiraled into being before her, only a few feet on a side, and yet directly in her path, a few paces away. She had just enough time to fork mid-stride and let the new instance continue in her sprint while the old crashed into the wall with a thud and yelp, then quit.
 
 \emph{``Attaaaaack!''} she hollered.
 
@@ -174,7 +174,7 @@ Warmth sighed, stretching their arms in front of em. ``I know she has not \emph{
 
 Motes frowned. ``Wait, really?''
 
-``I mean, I have not actually talked to them, but they cut off Dear for less.'' Ey laughed bitterly. ``But again, I am also a little one, right? My stanza also has our family dynamic, yes? I have dated a cocladist before, have I not? And My and I have been getting close again, too.''
+``I mean, I have not actually talked to them, but they cut off Dear for less.'' Ey laughed bitterly. ``But again, I am also a little one, right? Even if not in the same way as you. My stanza also has our family dynamic, yes? I have dated a cocladist before, have I not? And My and I have been getting close again, too.''
 
 Motes laughed and clapped her paws.
 
@@ -218,4 +218,4 @@ Warmth bumped eir nose against hers. ``Maybe. I do not know, Mote. Even if the t
 
 She wilted, nodded. ``Thanks.''
 
-``Mmhm. Now, come on. Let us lick a battery terminal and eat a passion fruit and see how it stacks up against \emph{frahabrodåt,} and then get some \emph{actual} food.''
+``Mmhm. Now, come on, kiddo. Let us lick a battery terminal and eat a passion fruit and see how it stacks up against \emph{frahabrodåt,} and then get some \emph{actual} food.''

motes-played/content/004.tex

@@ -24,7 +24,7 @@ She knew this game. Not from having actually played it in the waking world—who
 
 She could beat this game. She knew this game. She was speed-running it. Little tricks that the game's designer had built in allowed her to skip out of the bounds of the world if she jumped at just the right point, or perhaps she would use a damage glitch to end a fight almost before it began.
 
-She could beat the final boss, who was a mirror of herself. She knew that there was a strike, despite the boss knowing all that she did, being her, that would take her down in an instant.
+She could beat the final boss, who was a mirror of herself. She knew that there was a strike—despite the boss knowing all that she did, being her—that would take her down in an instant.
 
 But when she got to the boss arena, no one was there. Not the crouching version of herself, purple-auraed and glowing-eyed. Just her, suddenly in one, suddenly unified instead of spread across two forks.
 
@@ -150,7 +150,7 @@ There was a quiet chime from the door and the letters on the nameplate faded fro
 
 Beyond, rather than the comfortable and comfortably her home that Slow Hours kept, there was a well-lit reading room, a solarium of sorts with glass that looked out over some far distant part of the selfsame prairie that the neighborhood abutted. A table, several chairs, and a small collection of far more comfortable recliners huddled in the middle, while beyond, a room of shelving stretched into dimness.
 
-And there, already levering herself out of her chair, was Where It Watches The Slow Hours Progress. Sis Hours, her big sister. Slowers. Slow, if she was feeling particularly cheeky. Had Beholden been human or Slow Hours a skunk, they could easily have been mistaken for twins, so similar were their builds—short, soft, round of face with curly black hair framing that pale skin versus short, soft, round of face with thick white mane framing that black fur—and yet as soon as they spoke the differences were immediately evident. Where Beholden was brash and snarky, Slow Hours was quiet and thoughtful. Where Beholden leaned into music as the lead sound tech, Slow Hours leaned into books as the lead script manager. Where Beholden was fun—really, truly, earnestly fun and a joy to be around—Slow Hours was nice. She was the one with which one spoke about feelings. She was the one who cried with you.
+And there, already levering herself out of her chair, was Where It Watches The Slow Hours Progress. Sis Hours, her big sister. Slowers. Slow, if she was feeling particularly cheeky. Had Beholden been human or Slow Hours a skunk, they could easily have been mistaken for twins, so similar were their builds—short, soft, round of face with curly black hair framing that pale skin versus short, soft, round of face with thick white mane framing that black fur—and yet as soon as they spoke, the differences were immediately evident. Where Beholden was brash and snarky, Slow Hours was quiet and thoughtful. Where Beholden leaned into music as the lead sound tech, Slow Hours leaned into books as the lead script manager. Where Beholden was fun—really, truly, earnestly fun and a joy to be around—Slow Hours was nice. She was the one with which one spoke about feelings. She was the one who cried with you.
 
 Behind her, scattered among the shelves, several more instances of her cocladist were at work, peeking over whenever they thought she was not looking as though ready to do just that.
 
@@ -164,7 +164,7 @@ Motes huffed.
 
 She was a long time in opening up, which seemed to suit her cocladist just fine. Slow Hours summoned up a blanket and, disregarding the patio furniture that littered the concrete that ringed the solarium as well as the hard-packed dirt trail, picked her way out into the prairie. Holding two of the corners, she threw the blanket out to spread it over the shin-high grass. It seemed to float there, and for a long moment, neither of them moved. Skunk and woman observed this magic carpet in gingham hovering inches above the ground, bending blades and heads of stiff-stalked grass.
 
-When Motes hesitated, Slow Hours stepped onto the blanket and tramped dutifully around the rim of it, tamping down the grass so that they would not sink so deep into the blanket. That done, she lowered herself to sit cross-legged near the center and patted her lap.
+When Motes lingered on the trail, pensive, Slow Hours stepped onto the blanket and tramped dutifully around the rim of it, tamping down the grass so that they would not sink so deep. That done, she lowered herself to sit cross-legged near the center and patted her lap.
 
 At last, the skunk sighed and stepped onto the blanket, lowering herself to all fours and crawling forward to flop down beside her cocladist, resting her head on her thigh.
 
@@ -200,7 +200,7 @@ She was not so sure now. The immediacy of the dream felt too bound to time. Sure
 
 She was not so sure that dreams were meaningless firings of neurons composed into some semblance of order in the process of waking as she recalled tearfully the way that Michelle had caught her up by the scruff and told her horrible things—such horrible, horrible things—and then bade her drive home the blade to end her own life.
 
-All throughout, Slow Hours listened in silence, letting her talk while brushing her fingers slowly through the thick fur of her mane. Even after she finished speaking, while she lingered a while in those tears, her cocladist simply sat with her in silence, stroking through her fur and sharing in those tears. It was a comforting silence. Thoughtful. Patient, with no need of filling.
+All throughout, Slow Hours listened in silence, letting her talk while brushing her fingers slowly through the thick fur of her mane. Even after she finished speaking, while she lingered a while in tears, her cocladist simply sat with her in silence, stroking through her fur and sharing in those tears. It was a comforting silence. Thoughtful. Patient, with no need of filling.
 
 Once her tears began to slow and she wiped at her nose with a tissue, Slow Hours leaned down to kiss her cheek. ``I am sorry, Motes. You deserve better than what your sleeping mind has told you,'' she said gently. ``It sounds as though this false vision of your past self was upset with two things: your explorations around age and your explorations around death, yes?''
 
@@ -230,7 +230,7 @@ Motes shook her head. ``I never really talked to them, even going way back—I d
 
 ``Sasha said something like that,'' she said, brow furrowed. ``She said that Ma had been working behind the scenes to deal with Hammered Silver getting angry over just about everything.''
 
-``A Finger Pointing worked behind the scenes to deal with most things, Speck,'' Slow Hours said, voice fond. ``Still works. Au Lieu Du Rêve is self-sustaining, so she is doing what she does best: caring for her stanza and for the clade as a whole, even the parts of it that dislike her. But come, this is not a conversation about her. This is about your dream. This is about how you feel.''
+``A Finger Pointing worked behind the scenes to deal with most things, Speck,'' Slow Hours said, voice fond. ``\emph{Still} works. Au Lieu Du Rêve is self-sustaining, so she is doing what she does best: caring for her stanza and for the clade as a whole, even the parts of it that dislike her. But come, this is not a conversation about her. This is about your dream. This is about how you feel.''
 
 ``Right,'' Motes said, pushing that miserable sensation in her chest down once more. ``I feel\ldots I do not know. Usually, it feels like I am just living like myself, if it feels like anything at all. Sometimes it feels transgressive in a fun way, like when I get booted from a sim for being weird or I get strange looks on the street or whatever.''
 
@@ -266,7 +266,7 @@ She wilted, shoulders slumping. ``So I might be hearing more of this, then? From
 
 ``Yes, but what am I supposed to \emph{do?}''
 
-``Live, my dear. Grow.'' She laughed, adding quickly, ``Not up, not if you do not want, but take that knowledge, take strength in the fact that you are living intentionally as you are in spite of them, and make yourself better for it.''
+``Live, my dear. Grow.'' She laughed, adding quickly, ``Not up, not if you do not want, but take that knowledge, take strength in the fact that you are living intentionally as you are in spite of them, and make yourself better for it. Let it inform your growth, just do not let it define you.''
 
 Motes nodded sullenly.
 

motes-played/content/005.tex

@@ -37,9 +37,9 @@ There is a very important set of reasons for this:
 \item
   Your insistence on both appearing as and acting like a child on a System where such remains transgressive both by its very nature and relation to paraphilia as well as by the fact that there simply are no children sys-side.
 \item
-  The `family' dynamic that you live within inside the fifth stanza. Treating Time Is A Finger Pointing At Itself and Beholden To The Heat Of The Lamps as your `mothers', as your other cocladists as your siblings, is beyond a mere dalliance, but a tainting of reputations outside merely your own; it is a way of dragging others into a behavior that has a very real impact on how they—and, by extension, the rest of the clade—are perceived.
+  The `family' dynamic that you live within inside the fifth stanza. Treating Time Is A Finger Pointing At Itself and Beholden To The Heat Of The Lamps as your `mothers', as well as your other cocladists as your siblings, is beyond a mere dalliance, but a tainting of reputations outside merely your own; it is a way of dragging others into a behavior that has a very real impact on how they—and, by extension, the rest of the clade—are perceived.
 \item
-  The inclusion of the one who has named herself Sasha in not just the daily workings of Au Lieu Du Rêve but the social dealings of the fifth stanza. If I Am To Bathe In Dreams and I hold no jurisdiction over the fifth stanza, but we do hold control over our interactions with each other, and we have made our stance on the one who has named herself Sasha and how she has affected the reputation of the Ode clade abundantly clear.
+  The inclusion of the one who has named herself Sasha in not just the daily workings of Au Lieu Du Rêve but the social dealings of the fifth stanza. If I Am To Bathe In Dreams and I hold no jurisdiction over the fifth stanza, but we do hold control over our interactions with each other, and we have made our stance abundantly clear on the one who has named herself Sasha and how she has affected the reputation of the Ode clade.
 \item
   The involvement of I Remember The Rattle Of Dry Grass counter to my requests laid out for the entirety of my stanza. This goes beyond her disregard of the no-contact order and into her willing participation in the actions of the fifth stanza in general and engagement with you specifically: these no-contact orders are expected to be upheld by \emph{both} parties. Yes, this is complicated by the individual nature of a cladist, and yet the request has been made, and plainly. For a member of a stanza to so flagrantly disregard a request and for that to be enabled by the other party leaves me feeling personally slighted.
 \end{enumerate}
@@ -74,7 +74,7 @@ Instead, she stood up, committed the contents of the letter to an exocortex, a h
 
 But no, she should not do that, either. She should not do anything so childish. She should not do childish things. When she was a child, yes, she spoke like a child and thought like a child and reasoned like a child. She acted like a child when she was a child. \emph{Was.} She was not, was she? She was an adult, and when she had become an adult, it had come time to put an end to childish ways. She was no longer a child, she should not aim to remain or become a child, she was no longer a child, she was an adult, she should put away childish things, she was an adult, she no longer thought or reasoned like a child, she was an adult\ldots{}
 
-Her mind became a mire, a marsh, a crowded bog full of unpleasant smells and tangled reeds and matted rushes and wilting lilies and sickeningly green watercress and spiky sedge and\ldots{}
+Her mind became a mire, a marsh, a crowded bog full of unpleasant smells and tangled reeds and matted rushes and wilting flowers and sickeningly green ferns and twisting roots and\ldots{}
 
 Her muscles clenched and bunched and tensed and pulled her down into a ball so that her feet were flat on the ground and her butt hovered some inches above and her face was buried in her arms where they crossed over her knees and in her ears was the rushing of so much blood and her vision was black and red and full of phosphenes and all she felt was the pain of her skinned paws and bloodied nose echoed in repeating waves radiating throughout her body.
 
@@ -90,7 +90,7 @@ She watched her body slowly relax, watched her face screw up and the tears once
 
 \emph{Interesting,} she thought dispassionately. \emph{Yet I acted like a child when I was a child. I am an adult\ldots{}}
 
-Her sense of self lagged behind—an idea of a mote of a Motes tethered like a helium balloon—as Beholden carefully lifted her unsouled-yet-still-living body and hoisted her up to carry her from her studio—\emph{the lights, she left the lights on}—to her bedroom. A place of soft things. A soft mattress, a too-thick duvet, stuffed animals and yet more stuffed animals. \emph{I should put away childish things, I am\ldots{}}
+Her sense of self lagged behind—a hint of a mote of a Motes tethered to her body like a helium balloon on a string—as Beholden carefully lifted her unsouled-yet-still-living body and hoisted her up to carry her from her studio—\emph{the lights, she left the lights on}—to her bedroom. A place of soft things. A soft mattress, a too-thick duvet, stuffed animals and yet more stuffed animals. \emph{I should put away childish things, I am\ldots{}}
 
 Beholden set her on her feet and carefully lifted her muzzle to face her. ``Motes, I know that you are overflowing, but can you fork for me, kiddo? Your nose is swollen and your paws look awful.''
 

motes-played/content/006.tex

@@ -146,7 +146,7 @@ Once Motes saw what she was saying, saw through the everblue tint of prophecy an
 
 Motes understood after some days of consideration that it was not her prophecy. It was theirs. It was Slow Hours's and A Finger Pointing's and Beholden's and Unbidden's and the whole rest of Au Lieu Du Rêve's.
 
-She was still good friends with Alexei, that kid who was not a creep, never had been a creep, years later. That person and so many more.
+She was still good friends with Alexei, that kid who was not a creep, never had been a creep, years later. Him and so many more.
 
 \secdiv
 

motes-played/content/007.tex

@@ -168,7 +168,7 @@ There was sense of aromancy in A Finger Pointing that grew after she forked. She
 
 And so they fell in love, each in their own way. They fell in love and, for the most part, reveled. Yes, they had their spats, their breaks from each other. Yes, they had their flings besides, and the occasional relationship, all negotiated and cherished and bound up in compersion. But always they had each other.
 
-There was, of course, the social implications to consider, the taboo around intraclade relationships, the implications of narcissism and other, far more crass terms. Suggestions were made from on high, such as it were, from across the clade.
+There were, of course, the social implications to consider, the taboo around intraclade relationships, the implications of narcissism and other, far more crass terms. Suggestions were made from on high, such as it were, from across the clade.
 
 True Name suggested. She suggested that, as pleased as she was for them—and she \emph{was} pleased!—their relationship remain something for behind closed doors. Something where they kept their I-love-yous and kisses for a shared bed rather than out on the town or at however many gatherings they might wish to go to. Politics was, as ever, politics, and here are the political reasons laid bare. Jonas had, after all, set the plan before her after he had already spun it into being, and even she was beholden to it, much as it rankled for her, too. Much as it was nearly the death of her.
 
@@ -466,7 +466,7 @@ And thus it was an expectation one might fall short of. It was a standard one mi
 
 At some point in the past—there were so many admonitions against joy that she could choose from!—A Finger Pointing's friendship with Hammered Silver came to an end. The most visible of these was perhaps when Sasha joined Au Lieu Du Rêve as stage manager in systime 231, five years after she had become Sasha. That was when Hammered Silver had moved beyond cutting off Sasha herself and the entirety of the eighth stanza for their politicking, the first for their spying, and part of the ninth for their mere association, and had included the entirety of the fifth stanza.
 
-For the rest of the fifth stanza also included this expectation, this standard, this trust that there was within all people something worth friendship, some kernel of joy, and none of them shunned Sasha, either.
+For the rest of the fifth stanza also bore this expectation, this standard, this trust that there was within all people something worth friendship, some kernel of joy, and none of them shunned Sasha, either.
 
 Cutting contact is one hell of a way to end a friendship, yes?
 

motes-played/content/008.tex

@@ -2,7 +2,7 @@ Beholden never quite understood play.
 
 She \emph{played,} that was for sure. She played with her music, her sound design. She played with people's voices, recording them for later and slicing them up into bits and bites, rebuilding them into some work of eerie or jittery or calming beauty. She played with the sounds around her house, her studio, the whole of the world. She played with acoustics. She played with spaces. She played with echoes and reverberations and dead-zones and cones of silence. She played with soundscapes and world-soundtracks.
 
-She hummed and sang. She played the piano, the drums, the guitar. She played the clarinet badly and the flute worse. She played with A Finger Pointing, their own little jazz trio, their own little big band. She played with her friends, jam session after jam session after jam session. She played her own sets, forking countless times over to play at however many clubs or venues. She played at The Party—several instances thereof!—running now for the last century and a half, a party that never ceased, attendees sleeping wherever, in beds or where they had fallen, with each other, alone. Beholden To The Flow Of The Crowds existed for a reason, yes?
+She hummed and sang. She played the piano, the drums, the guitar. She played the clarinet badly and the flute worse. She played with A Finger Pointing, their own little jazz trio, their own little big band. She played with her friends, jam session after jam session after jam session. She played her own sets, forking countless times over to play at however many clubs or venues. She played at The Party—several instances thereof!—running now for the last century and a half, a party that never ceased, attendees sleeping wherever: in beds or where they had fallen, with each other, alone. Beholden To The Flow Of The Crowds existed for a reason, yes?
 
 She played as she danced. She played with others, dragging them home for a one-night stand, a few-nights' fling, a relationship that lasted a month or two, but so rarely any longer.
 
@@ -14,15 +14,15 @@ Beholden was not stupid. She was not an idiot. She could conceptualize things ar
 
 She did not really know why she played, because she did not really \emph{care} to know why.
 
-She did not know why she loved, why she loved A Finger Pointing or Motes. She did not know why she loved so few others. She did not know why she felt such devotion to her boss—``not your boss'' the common refrain—and her Dot in a way that she could not muster for anyone else. She never bothered to question why.
+She did not know why she loved or Motes. She did not know why she loved so few others. She did not know why she felt such devotion to her boss—``not your boss'' the common refrain—and her Dot in a way that she could not muster for anyone else. She never bothered to question why.
 
 She did not know why she rose so quickly to anger. She did not know why she and Motes fought at times. She did not know why she got so mad when she saw Motes die on stage. She did not know why, when she and Slow Hours fought—usually about Motes's various deaths—it hurt so much. She shied away from ever trying to figure out why.
 
-She just knew that she played, that she loved, she got stuck in her big feelings.
+She just knew that she played, that she loved, and that she got stuck in her big feelings.
 
 And so when she found Motes huddled in the middle of her studio, all but curled into a ball as she crouched on the floor, when she found her bloodied, beat up, Beholden panicked. She kept it together long enough to help the little skunk to her room, to fork, to bed. She held herself in one piece as she told Motes time and again that she loved her. She held the panic at bay until she made her way to her studio, locked the completely soundproof door, and crumpled to the ground, screaming and wailing and sobbing. She tore holes in the couch cushions with her claws. She ripped acoustic foam from the walls. She threw the table hard enough to shatter it.
 
-And then, when sobs settled into simple tears and not great, heaving things, she waved her paw to unwind the tantrum. She brought into being a glass of water to set on the once more intact table, sat down on the un-torn couch, and moaned through her tears, letting the replaced acoustic foam absorb the sounds.
+And then, when sobs settled into simple tears and not great, heaving things, she waved her paw to unwind the tantrum. She brought into being a glass of water to set on the once more intact table, sat down on the un-torn couch, and moaned through her tears, letting the replaced acoustic foam absorb her despair.
 
 When she was next able to speak, she began a sensorium message to A Finger Pointing. \emph{``Dot is overflowing, love. She--''}
 
@@ -104,7 +104,7 @@ The skunk nodded. ``Yeah, like that. I just have way less of that in me than eit
 
 Dry Grass winced. ``Me too. I will not show up to a performance if I know that will happen.''
 
-``Really? Shit. I am sorry. At least I am not alone in that,'' Beholden mumbled, nudging herself to start swinging as well. ``It is moments like those when I feel most like she is my kid, though. I feel that family dynamic most when she is at risk, you know? When Slow Hours and I argue about that sort of thing, that is when I feel most protective of her, like my sister is doing something bad to her.''
+``Really? Shit. I am sorry. At least I am not alone in that,'' Beholden mumbled, nudging herself to start swinging as well. ``It is moments like those when I feel most like she is my kid, though. I feel that family dynamic most when she is at risk, you know? When Slow Hours and I argue about that sort of thing, that is when I feel most protective of her, like my sister is doing something bad to my kid.''
 
 ``Was it always like that?'' Dry Grass asked. ``Did you always feel that?
 
@@ -156,7 +156,7 @@ She had to, at least for now, at least for the time being. She would someday nee
 
 It was her fragility, and the only way she knew to reinforce herself was through setting such emotions aside. She would need to confront that—that and so many other things—but not just yet, not with so much before her.
 
-And so, when A Finger Pointing stood, wobbled, and requested that she take her home, Beholden had been immediately ready to stand up and gently guide her from the library and back to the neighborhood. She let her partner hold onto her to the extent that she was comfortable, rather than the other way around, trusting that she would take only what touch she needed lest she get yet more overwhelmed.
+And so, when A Finger Pointing stood, wobbled, and requested that she take her home, Beholden immediately stood with her and gently guided her from the library and back to the neighborhood. She let her partner hold onto her to the extent that she was comfortable, rather than the other way around, trusting that she would take only what touch she needed lest she get yet more overwhelmed.
 
 She knew well by now the ways in which A Finger Pointing had changed over the years, about how the crash had affected her.
 
@@ -166,7 +166,7 @@ She knew well because she had heard A Finger Pointing fall as the world ceased t
 
 So she set her mind to caring for her love. It was as she had always done. It was as she must do. If the crash had shaped the way that A Finger Pointing moved through the world, the way she danced with those around her, so too had it shaped Beholden and her path forward. Even if she did not know it at first, even if her partner had only explained it after the fall, it had shaped the both of their lives and the life of their \emph{dóttir,} brought them insensibly closer together over the years to where they were now: a family true.
 
-She pressed those emotions down and instead lingered on love. She lingered on her devotion to A Finger Pointing, on her protectiveness of her charge, her Dot. She lingered on those good memories as best she could to keep the very air from tasting astringent, to push away the feeling of desiccating sand gritting between her teeth.
+She pressed those emotions down and instead lingered on love. She lingered on her devotion to A Finger Pointing. She lingered on her protectiveness of her charge, her Dot, the child she so often insisted was not her own and yet so often referred to as her kid. She lingered on those good memories as best she could to keep the very air from tasting astringent, to push away the feeling of desiccating sand gritting between her teeth.
 
 Once A Finger Pointing was settled at home and Motes had been checked on, once the message had been sent to Hammered Silver and they had eaten and settled down on the couch for the night to rest, to at least pretend to work, only then, did Beholden very carefully open the jarred emotions from earlier, delicately withdrawing them one by one and laying them out before herself in her mind. She did not touch them, hot as they were. She used tweezers or tongs or perhaps chopsticks to lift them free, nudge them to lay flat that she might read deeper into them.
 

motes-played/content/009.tex

@@ -18,13 +18,13 @@ She shook her head to dispel the lingering thought, one based in overflow rather
 
 And so she pulled out a couple of eggs, a few links of chicken sausage, and a dish of frozen hash browns. On a whim, she also pulled out a few large tortillas and some green chili salsa that she—that much of the clade—remembered fondly from her time back phys-side, back when she lived in the central corridor. She may as well go all out, yes?
 
-The hash browns were the first to go in the pan, laid out in an even layer so that they could crisp up, while two more pans were dreamed up so that she could cook the sausage and eggs meanwhile.
+The hash browns were the first to go in the pan, laid out in an even layer so that they could crisp up. Two more pans were dreamed up so that she could cook the sausage and eggs meanwhile.
 
 Definitely a morning for a mimosa.
 
 The eggs were fried over easy and the sausage cooked to just this side of burnt so that they offered a pleasant mix of textures, crispy on the outside and chewy on the inside with an indulgent oiliness throughout. These were layered on top of a pile of even crispier hash browns—the kind that shatter beneath a fork when you try to stab them—before the eggs were laid on top and the yolks punctured so that they oozed out over the mess to add a sauce of their own.
 
-Her plate laden with two burritos in one hand and mimosa in the other, she made her way to the couch rather than the dining table and settled down with a long, worn-out sigh.
+A plate laden with two burritos in one hand and mimosa in the other, she made her way to the couch rather than the dining table and settled down with a long, worn-out sigh.
 
 What was missing\ldots? Ah! Coffee.
 
@@ -54,7 +54,7 @@ Motes laughed and waited until each was finished before returning the cheek kiss
 
 ````Beholden, you \emph{know} that she will pull through,'' I kept saying. ``She \emph{always} does.'' You are stronger than your silly cocladist, Dot, are you not?''
 
-``She was so rude, cutting off a conversation with Sasha mid-sentence and rushing us back here, putting on her most nonchalant act.''
+``She was so rude, cutting off a conversation with Sasha mid-sentence and begging to rush us back here, then putting on her most nonchalant act.''
 
 Motes laughed as they both scoffed at each other, looping her arms through each of theirs and slouching down, settling into the comfort of touch and family. ``You are both nerds,'' she murmured. ``Thank you for keeping an eye on me.''
 
@@ -92,7 +92,7 @@ Motes shook her head gently so as not to dislodge crown or umbrella.
 
 ``Good. You are allowed to be Big Motes for a bit while you process this. You are allowed to hold back on all sorts of interactions. I have noticed a lack of `Ma' or `Bee'-- no, no. No need to explain, just an observation. These are things that we will miss and then rejoice when they return.''
 
-She slouched against A Finger Pointing and hugged around her middle, careful not to spill her drink. ``Thank you, my dear. I really do appreciate it. I will get there, too, for all of that. Just\ldots not yet. Not quite yet.''
+She slouched against A Finger Pointing and hugged around her middle, careful not to spill her drink. ``Thank you. I really do appreciate it. I will get there, too, for all of that. Just\ldots not yet. Not quite yet.''
 
 Beholden smiled, reached out to brush some of her curls away from her face, added, ``Yeah. And if you need us to lay off calling you `Dot', I am sure--''
 
@@ -144,7 +144,7 @@ She sat up straight, staring at her partner like she was some alien creature, so
 
 As A Finger Pointing and Beholden finally got around to whipping up lunch for themselves, the conversation once more fell into comfortable chatter, the sort of banter that so often filed the house, and while, by the time her appointment arrived, Motes had not yet felt comfortable enough to refer to them as\pagebreak\ `Ma' and `Bee', that welcoming sense of family had returned in force, and she felt once more in her comfortable role as their Dot, their \emph{dóttir}.
 
-As the afternoon threatened to slide right into evening, Motes took her leave and left A Finger Pointing and Beholden on the couch, canoodling. Clearly that had taken precedence over whatever they had had planned at the auditorium for the rest of the day. That they had come home for her, for Motes, was the base of that warmth that had grown within her.
+When the afternoon threatened to slide right into evening, Motes slipped away and left A Finger Pointing and Beholden on the couch, canoodling. Clearly that had taken precedence over whatever they had had planned at the auditorium for the rest of the day. That they had come home for her, for Motes, was the base of that warmth that had grown within her.
 
 She made her way out of the house and wandered to the center of the neighborhood. She left the automatic chalk lines going, letting them be the fuel that propelled her forward, let their flowering shapes fit into this perception of herself as a flower child rather than simply a child, a careful reframing that allowed her to have this thing, this gentle goodness.
 
@@ -168,7 +168,7 @@ Motes held onto the chains of the swing and gave herself a push with her feet, t
 
 ``Motes?''
 
-``Yeah, actually, I think I would like Big Sarah today.''
+``Yeah, actually. I think I would like Big Sarah today.''
 
 Nodding, Sarah Genet stepped off the swing and summarily disappeared, leaving behind a fork still sitting down. This new instance was far older, looking to be sixty or so years old with salt-and-pepper hair in a much neater ponytail, her skin just as brown and yet fraught with wrinkles, her smile kind and gaze always attentive.
 
@@ -196,7 +196,7 @@ Sarah smiled in turn, far more gently. ``Tell me about this letter, then. Tell m
 
 And so she did. She summarized portions of it, then pulled it up to read the most impactful bits. She talked about the feelings of the month leading up to this, the conversations and the dream. She talked about how she had stopped playing, how it hurt to think of reengaging, how she knew she would but there was work to be done first.
 
-And then, on Sarah's gentle urging, she worked her way backwards. She worked her way back through the months and years before, the feelings that lingered, the various comings-to-terms that she had had over the years. She talked through and made her own connections, letting Sarah suggest when her voice stumbled to a halt.
+And then, on Sarah's gentle urging, she worked her way backwards. She worked her way back through the months and years before, the feelings that lingered, the various comings-to-terms that she had had over the decades. She talked through and made her own connections, letting Sarah suggest when her voice stumbled to a halt.
 
 ``Motes,'' Sarah said gently. ``Tell me why Hammered Silver's opinion matters to you.''
 

motes-played/content/010.tex

@@ -2,7 +2,7 @@ Motes played.
 
 She played in the dark. She played crawling on hands and knees. She played hide and seek. She played stealth missions. She played silently, muffling the sound of her passage and keeping her breathing quiet; it was against the rules to turn it off. She played base commander, repelling invisible foes, hollering out orders to her friends. She played noisily, her voice echoing off the rocky walls with laughter and shouts bouncing around seemingly endlessly.
 
-She played in Rock Park, a hulking mound of salmon, pink, gold, and buff flagstone that had been stacked in such a way as to create a series of twisty, narrow tunnels throughout. The tunnels turned sharply, or required her to climb up vague suggestions of ladders made by protruding slabs of rock, or dumped her down into a central cavern, the ground covered in a layer of velvety soft mulch to cushion any falls. The cavern that opened out on one end into a broader playground, all of the equipment themed to be related to a quarry: dump trucks and bucket hoists and front end loaders and excavators.
+She played in Rock Park, a hulking mound of salmon, pink, gold, and buff flagstone that had been stacked in such a way as to create a series of twisty, narrow tunnels throughout. The tunnels turned sharply, or required her to climb up vague suggestions of ladders made by protruding slabs of rock, or dumped her down into a central cavern, the ground covered in a layer of velvety soft mulch to cushion any falls. The cavern opened out on one end into a broader playground, all of the equipment themed to be related to a quarry: dump trucks and bucket hoists and front end loaders and excavators.
 
 She played throughout the rest of the park, hauling that mulch or digging into it with the equipment or her paws, putting those digger claws of hers to use. She played in the grass, played in the little stands of pine trees that dotted the field beyond, the two whitewashed gazebos. Sometimes there were roller-blades or bikes or skateboards. Sometimes there were self-propelled levitation boots that let you putter along at a few miles per hour a hand's breadth above the ground and which would do all they could to keep you from falling over.
 
@@ -96,7 +96,7 @@ She laughed. ``Some of us. Some of us drifted apart, but some of us stick togeth
 
 Motes sighed. ``Sort of, yeah. That is why it hurt and why I had to spend a lot of time thinking about it.''
 
-He reached out and gave her tail a gentle tug—not something she usually tolerated, but the conversation had been so gentle, it had no scent of meanness to it—and smiled up to her. ``Well, \emph{I} think you're better than she is, so clearly she isn't you. Tell her to get stuffed!''
+He reached out and gave her tail a light tug—not something she usually tolerated, but the conversation had been so gentle that it had no scent of meanness to it—and smiled up to her. ``Well, \emph{I} think you're better than she is, so clearly she isn't you. Tell her to get stuffed!''
 
 She laughed, reaching out to bat at his hand. ``I guess I pretty much did, because here I am\textasciitilde{}''
 
@@ -142,13 +142,13 @@ She shrugged. ``But then, maybe I started by whining at you about it. It is nobo
 
 Dry Grass's expression softened and she brushed some of the skunk's mane out of her face. ``I suppose there is that,'' she said quietly. ``We could go back and forth placing blame as much as we would like--''
 
-``And she would always be the wrong one,'' Motes interrupted. ``Frick her. She is the one holding grudges, we are the ones doing what we want. She is the one hurting people, we are the ones just having fun and playing.''
+``And she would always be the wrong one,'' Motes interrupted. ``Frick her. She is the one holding grudges, we are the ones doing what we want. She is the one hurting people, we are the ones just having fun and playing. She is just a bully.  ''
 
 There was another moment of silence, of Dry Grass furrowing her brow and thinking, and then at last she lay back on the beanbag and tugged Motes back up to lay on her front. ``Yes,'' she murmured as the skunk got comfortable. ``Yes, I guess both of those are true.''
 
 They stayed like that for the rest of the film, Dry Grass petting Motes and Motes telling Dry Grass stories about the day, little nothings that showed that fun, that lack of pain.
 
-And then, when the movie was over and many of those in the community center had started to doze on their beanbags and couches, when her ma and Bee put kisses on her snout and left arm in arm, when Dry Grass fell asleep one too many times and begged off to walk back home—not without yet another tight hug from Motes and a promise to be back soon—when Motes herself started to get sleepy, she disentangled herself from the rest of that dozy comfort and slipped out into the cool of the night.
+And then, when the movie was over and many of those in the community center had started to doze on their beanbags and couches, when her ma and Bee put kisses on her snout and left arm in arm, when Dry Grass fell asleep one too many times and begged off to walk back home—not without yet another tight hug from Motes and a promise to be back soon—when Motes caught herself nodding off, she disentangled herself from the rest of that dozy comfort and slipped out into the cool of the night.
 
 Rather than turning left, off toward home, she turned right to the other arm of the `U' that made up the neighborhood and started wandering through the grass until she hit sidewalk. There, vines in chalk blossomed lazily behind her footsteps, and in the night, in the light of the stars and the moon and the streetlamps, they seemed to glow in pale oranges and whites and blues. She played with them by taking wobbling, drunken steps, crossing one leg in front of the other, pirouetting clumsily to make them tie themselves into knots.
 
@@ -156,7 +156,9 @@ Even so, she continued down around the slow curve of the neighborhood's main str
 
 It was a rightness of form—of species, of size, of appearance.
 
-It was a rightness of mindset—of play, of childlike wonder, of a recognition of who she was and who she had been and who she could become.
+It was a rightness of mindset—of play, of childlike wonder.
+
+It was a recognition of who she was and who she had been and who she could become.
 
 She made it halfway around the bend, down to the very base of the `U', and, following some whim, some spark of desire, darted back into the grass to race up the ladder of the jungle gym and launch herself down the slide with a shout. She tumbled off the end and into the gravel in an undignified, giggling heap.
 

motes-played/content/thoughts-on-motes.tex

@@ -79,7 +79,7 @@ But even if it were instructive, what are the lessons to be taken away from the
 \begin{itemize}
 \tightlist
 \item
-  \textbf{Do not trust strangers not to be gross to kids.} Motes is wary of forming friendships with adults unless she already knows and trusts them. Even when she does go out as an adult and engages with sexuality, she will not even give her name.
+  \textbf{Do not trust strangers not to be gross to kids.} Motes is wary of forming friendships with adults unless she already knows and trusts them. Often, when she does go out as an adult and engages with sexuality, she will not even give her name.
 \item
   \textbf{Have a support network to help with the first point.} She relies on others not herself to help spot the things that she misses. Those she keeps close—A Finger Pointing, Beholden, Slow Hours, and so on—all strive to protect her, and she trusts in that.
 \item
@@ -110,7 +110,7 @@ I remain anxious, I still struggle against defensiveness, and yes, I suppose I d
 
 If I sound at all bitter, then, it is because I have made something that I am proud of and yet also feel compelled to defend, and I resent that.
 
-I resent that I need to be rightfully anxious. I resent that, by creating something in this idea-space, I run the very real risk of, at worst, having my personhood negated when I am declared problematic, a groomer, a pedophile, \emph{persona non grata.} I resent that I do not need to consider whether I will be labeled these things; I am all but sure I will. I mentioned above that I have already had a conversation that touched on this. It led to someone reducing their engagement with the Post-Self community.\footnote{Which is valid! Curate your engagement. Stay healthy with your media consumption. The Post-Self community explicitly welcomes a come-and-go, curation-friendly approach in all our spaces.} I resent that I risk losing readers, friends, loved ones. I resent that the oft-misused ``death of the author'' is only applied to the works one enjoys and derided otherwise, and so in this case, I will be reduced to my roughest edges and discarded by those who do not enjoy works such as these. The work that I put into it will be ignored in the face of this one fact regardless of my feelings on what I have accomplished.
+I resent that I need to be rightfully anxious. I resent that, by creating something in this idea-space, I run the very real risk of, at worst, having my personhood negated when I am declared problematic, a groomer, a pedophile, \emph{persona non grata.} I resent that I do not need to consider whether I will be labeled these things; I am all but sure I will. I mentioned above that I have already had a conversation that touched on this. It led to someone reducing their engagement with the Post-Self community for a while.\footnote{Which is valid! Curate your engagement. Stay healthy with your media consumption. The Post-Self community explicitly welcomes a come-and-go, curation-friendly approach in all our spaces.} I resent that I risk losing readers, friends, loved ones. I resent that the oft-misused ``death of the author'' is only applied to the works one enjoys and derided otherwise, and so in this case, I will be reduced to my roughest edges and discarded by those who do not enjoy works such as these. The work that I put into it will be ignored in the face of this one fact regardless of my feelings on what I have accomplished.
 
 I resent that, if I claim that \href{https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/ReallySevenHundredYearsOld}{Motes is nearly 300 years old} at the time of this story, I will be accused of trying to weasel my way out of grooming accusations, regardless of the fact that dealing with grooming is part of her character and the plot. I resent that if I claim that the headmate upon which Motes is based is actually 38 at time of writing, just like this wretched body,\footnote{Remember that mention of sciatica? Yeeeah\ldots} and has simply leaned into feelings of kidcore, a portion of my identity will be declared wicked and manipulative. I resent that, no matter how loudly I say that I am aware of the broader context of CSA in the wider world, how abhorrent I think that is, none of that will matter in the face of that same imagined wicked and manipulative aspect. I resent that, no matter how nuanced my arguments on consent are\footnote{Many of those who \emph{do} engage with interests and kinks often considered problematic think about consent and those potentially problematic aspects \emph{far} more than most, even those who dislike them, I guarantee you.}—even within this very work!—the work itself will be declared, yes, wicked and manipulative.
 
@@ -126,7 +126,7 @@ If I sound bitter, it is because I am proud of what I have made, and I want to s
 
 I remain very proud of \emph{Motes Played.} The story was fun to write, the characters were fun to write (and super meaningful besides; thanks plurality!), the responses were fun to hear, and I really hope that the book itself is received well.
 
-It is my hope that this work is enjoyed as a work of escapism. I hope that a work that interrogates little-space and its role in the lives of those who engage with, all plopped into a sci-fi setting, it leads to readers interrogating the world around them. I hope that, if it is at all instructive, it is instructive on the joys of identity, the hedonism of ever becoming more accurately oneself.
+It is my hope that this work is enjoyed as a work of escapism. I hope that a work that interrogates little-space and its role in the lives of those who engage with it all plopped into a sci-fi setting leads to readers interrogating the world around them. I hope that, if it is at all instructive, it is instructive on the joys of identity, the hedonism of ever becoming more accurately oneself.
 
 I have come to love Motes, and I hope you do too.