Marsh, Kaddish

_template/Makefile

@@ -0,0 +1,64 @@
+.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: fate
+fate: engage-draft
+	xelatex fate.tex
+	xelatex fate.tex
+
+.PHONY: bleed-images
+bleed-images: ## Swap in the full-bleed images for the printers
+	pdftk BOOK=book.pdf MERGE=assets/merge.pdf MAY=assets/may-bar.pdf \
+		cat BOOK1-22 MAY BOOK24-235 MERGE BOOK237-end \
+		output with-illustrations.pdf
+
+.PHONY: plain
+plain: ## full document of the book with no proofing marks
+	xelatex book.tex
+	fd -I 'aux' content/ -x rm \{\} \;
+	fd -I 'bak' content/ -x rm \{\} \;
+
+.PHONY: toc
+toc: plain ## full book with ToC re-rendering in case of page changes
+	xelatex book.tex
+	fd -I 'aux' content/ -x rm \{\} \;
+
+.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
+	@echo "Are you sure you want to do this now?"
+	@echo "Remove the 'false' below to procede"
+	#false
+	fish fromzk.fish

_template/book.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,310 @@
+\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/toc}
+\input{includes/font}
+\input{includes/title}
+\input{includes/secdiv}
+\input{includes/hyphenation}
+
+\newcommand{\Char}[1]{
+  \cleardoublepage
+  \null
+  \thispagestyle{empty}
+  \vfill
+  \begin{center}
+    \huge\TitleFont #1
+  \end{center}
+  \vspace{2cm}
+  \vfill
+}
+\makeatletter
+\newcommand*{\shifttext}[2]{%
+  \settowidth{\@tempdima}{#2}%
+  \makebox[\@tempdima]{\hspace*{#1}#2}%
+}
+\makeatother
+
+\begin{document}
+  \frontmatter
+
+  \thispagestyle{empty}
+  \null
+  \vfill
+  \begin{flushright}
+    \DisplayFont Idumea
+  \end{flushright}
+  \vfill
+  \cleardoublepage
+
+  \pagestyle{empty}
+
+  \doublespacing
+
+  \begin{center}\DisplayFont
+    \null
+    \vfill
+    {\Huge Idumea}
+    \vspace{1ex}
+
+    {\Huge ×}
+    \vspace{1ex}
+
+    {\Large A Post-Self story}
+    \vspace{2em}
+
+    \vfill
+
+    {\Large Madison Rye Progress}
+
+    with contributions from
+
+    {\Large Samantha Yule Fireheart
+
+    Krzysztof “Tomash” Drewniak}
+  \end{center}
+  \thispagestyle{empty}
+
+  \newpage
+
+  \input{includes/copyright}
+
+  \newpage
+  \null
+  \cleardoublepage
+
+  \onehalfspacing
+  %\doublespacing
+
+  \null
+  \vfill
+  \noindent\textbf{Note:} this book takes place in the Post-Self setting and touches on the plots of The Post-Self Cycle, as well as that of \emph{Marsh}. It is still a standalone novel, but might benefit from having read those works first. They are available as paperbacks, ebooks, and free to read in the browser, and you may find them and much more at \emph{post-self.ink}.
+  
+  \vspace{1cm}
+  
+  \noindent\textbf{Content notes:} brief description of sex, themes of self harm, suicide, and poor mental health.
+  \vspace{1cm}
+  
+  \noindent The section with Warmth In Fire on page \pageref{warmth} is a collaboration with Samantha Yule Fireheart.
+  \vspace{1em}
+
+  \noindent The section with The Dog and The Rabbit Chaser on page \pageref{thedog1} is a collaboration with Krzysztof ``Tomash'' Drewniak.
+
+  \cleardoublepage
+  \thispagestyle{empty}
+  \tableofcontents*
+  \null
+  \thispagestyle{empty}
+
+  \newpage
+  \singlespacing
+
+  \begin{center}
+  {\Large \DisplayFont \underline{Dramatis Personae}}
+
+  \vspace{0.7em}
+  
+  {\DisplayFont\underline{The Ode clade}}
+
+  \vspace{0.7em}
+
+  {\DisplayFont\small Your Humble Narrator}
+
+  Dear The Wheat And Rye Under The Stars
+
+  \vspace{0.7em}
+
+  {\DisplayFont\small The Woman}
+
+  To Pray For The End Of Endings
+
+  \vspace{0.7em}
+
+  {\DisplayFont\small Her Friend}
+  
+  I Must Show No Hesitation When Speaking My Name
+
+  \vspace{0.7em}
+
+  {\DisplayFont\small Her Therapist}
+
+  Where I May Ever Dream
+
+  \vspace{0.7em}
+
+  {\DisplayFont\small Her Cocladist}
+
+  Should We Rejoice In The End Of Endings
+
+  \vspace{0.7em}
+
+  {\DisplayFont\small The Oneirotect}
+
+  Which Offers Heat And Warmth In Fire
+
+  \vspace{0.7em}
+
+  {\DisplayFont\small The Instance Artist}
+
+  Dear, Also, The Tree That Was Felled
+
+  \vspace{0.7em}
+
+  {\DisplayFont\small The Poet}
+
+  Where It Watches the Slow Hours Progress
+
+  \vspace{0.7em}
+
+  {\DisplayFont\small The Musician}
+
+  Beholden To The Heat Of The Lamps
+
+  \vspace{0.7em}
+
+  {\DisplayFont\small The Child}
+
+  And We Are The Motes In The Stage-Lights
+
+  \vspace{0.7em}
+
+  {\DisplayFont\small The Narrator's Friend}
+
+  Time Is A Finger Pointing At Itself
+  
+  \vspace{0.7em}
+
+  {\DisplayFont\small The Blue Fairy}
+
+  I Remember The Rattle Of Dry Grass
+
+  \newpage
+  
+  \phantom{\Large \DisplayFont \underline{Dramatis Personae}}
+
+  \vspace{0.7em}
+
+  {\DisplayFont\underline{Others}}
+
+  \vspace{0.7em}
+
+  {\DisplayFont\small Her Lover}
+
+  Farai
+
+  \vspace{0.7em}
+
+  {\DisplayFont\small The Dog}
+
+  Scout Among Weird Skunks With Good Kettlecorn
+
+  \vspace{0.7em}
+
+  {\DisplayFont\small His Elder}
+
+  Tomash
+
+  \vspace{0.7em}
+
+  {\DisplayFont\small The Rabbit-Chaser}
+
+  \fbox{\rule{1in}{0pt}\rule[0.2ex]{0pt}{1.1ex}} (called ``Scout Chasing Rabbits'')
+
+  \vfill
+
+  And, of course, you, my dear, \emph{dear} reader.
+  \end{center}
+
+  \mainmatter
+  \onehalfspacing
+
+  \pagestyle{empty}
+
+  \cleardoublepage
+
+  \null
+  \vfill
+  \begin{quote}
+People of Orphalese, beauty is life when life unveils her holy face.
+But you are life and you are the veil. Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror.
+But you are eternity and you are the mirror.
+
+— Kahlil Gibran\label{prophet}
+\end{quote}
+
+%  And am I born to die?\\
+%  To lay this body down!\\
+%  And must my trembling spirit fly\\
+%  into a world unknown?\\
+%  A land of deepest shade;\\
+%  Unpierced by human thought.\\
+%  The dreary regions of the dead,\\
+%  Where all things are forgot.
+%
+%  Soon as from earth I go,\\
+%  What will become of me?
+%  \end{verse}
+%
+%  — Charles Wesley
+
+  \vfill
+
+  \cleardoublepage
+  \pagestyle{ourbook}
+  %\doublespacing
+
+  \Char{End Of Endings — 2403\par ×\par Rye — 2409}
+  \markboth{Idumea}{Madison Rye Progress}
+  
+  \addcontentsline{toc}{part}{Idumea}
+  \chapter*{×}
+  \input{content/001}
+  \chapter*{× ×}
+  \input{content/002}
+  \chapter*{×\\× ×}
+  \input{content/003}
+  \chapter*{× ×\\× ×}
+  \input{content/004}
+  \chapter*{×  ×\\×\\×  ×}
+  \input{content/005}
+  \chapter*{× × ×\\× × ×}
+  \input{content/006}
+  \chapter*{× ×\\× × ×\\× ×}
+  \input{content/007}
+  \chapter*{× × ×\\× × ×\\× ×}
+  \input{content/008}
+  \chapter*{× × ×\\× × ×\\× × ×}
+  \input{content/009} \input{graphomania}\normalfont
+
+  \newpage
+  \null
+  \cleardoublepage
+  \null
+
+  \vfill
+  
+  \begin{center}
+  \noindent\Huge ×\label{x}
+  \end{center}
+
+  \vfill
+
+  \cleardoublepage
+  
+  \backmatter
+  \pagestyle{plain}
+
+  %\singlespacing
+
+  \Char{Afterword}
+
+  \input{content/afterword}
+  
+\end{document}

_template/fromzk.fish

@@ -0,0 +1,14 @@
+for i in (fd '0.*' ~/sparkleup/zk/writing/post-self/motes/)
+     set o (echo $i | sed -e 's/.\+motes\///')
+     set d (echo $o | sed -e 's/[0-9b]\+.md//')
+     set t (echo $o | sed -e 's/\.md/.tex/')
+     echo "$o $d"
+     if not test -d src/$d
+         mkdir -p src/$d
+     end
+     if not test -d content/$d
+         mkdir -p content/$d
+     end
+     cp $i src/$o
+     pandoc -f markdown -t latex src/$o --wrap=none --top-level-division=chapter | sed -e 's/\\chapter/\\chapter*/' | sed -e 's/---/—/g' > content/$t; \
+ end

_template/includes/_draft.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,5 @@
+%%% Watermark for draft
+\usepackage{draftwatermark}
+\def\watermarkloaded{1}
+\SetWatermarkLightness{0.95}
+\SetWatermarkText{Patrons}

_template/includes/_frame.tex

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

_template/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}

_template/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=1in,
+  includeheadfoot,
+  twoside,
+  showcrop
+]{geometry}
+\ifdefined\SetWatermarkHorCenter
+  \SetWatermarkHorCenter{3in}
+  \SetWatermarkVerCenter{4.5in}
+\fi

_template/includes/copyright.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,78 @@
+\null
+\pagestyle{empty}
+\vfill
+\singlespacing
+{\small\parindent0pt\parskip5pt
+\noindent Copyright \copyright\ 2024, Madison Rye Progress, Samantha Yule Fireheart, and Krzysztof ``Tomash'' Drewniak. This work 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
+
+ISBN: \ISBN
+
+\textit{Idumea}
+
+Cover \copyright\ 2024, Voksa (vox-space.neocities.org)\\
+and Madison Rye Progress.
+
+\Edition\ Edition, \Year. All rights reserved.
+
+This book uses the fonts Gentium Book Basic, {\DisplayFont Gotu} and {\TitleFont Linux Biolinum O} and was typeset with {\usefont{OT1}{cmr}{m}{n}\XeLaTeX}.
+
+%Printed in the United States of America\\
+%\EditionsList
+}%\parindent0pt
+
+\clearpage
+\singlespacing
+\thispagestyle{empty}
+\begin{center}
+    \noindent {\Large\DisplayFont Post-Self books}
+    \TitleFamily
+
+    \vspace{2em}
+
+    {\large The Post-Self Cycle}\\
+    {\normalfont\small by Madison Rye Progress (as Madison Scott-Clary)}
+
+    \vspace{1ex}
+     
+    I. \emph{Qoheleth}
+
+    II. \emph{Toledot}
+
+    III. \emph{Nevi'im}
+
+    IV. \emph{Mitzvot}
+
+    \vspace{2ex}
+     
+    \emph{\large Clade — A Post-Self Anthology}\\
+    {\normalfont\small Various authors}
+     
+    \vspace{2ex}
+
+    \emph{\large Unintended Tendencies}\\
+    {\normalfont\small by JL Conway}
+     
+    \vspace{2ex}
+    
+    \emph{\large Marsh}\\
+    {\normalfont\small by Madison Rye Progress \emph{et al.}}
+
+    \vspace{2ex}
+     
+    \emph{\large Motes Played}\\
+    {\normalfont\small by Madison Rye Progress \& Samantha Yule Fireheart}
+
+    \vspace{2ex}
+     
+    \emph{\large Ask. — An Odist Q\&A}\\
+    {\normalfont\small Various authors}
+
+    \vspace{2ex}
+     
+    \emph{\large Idumea}\\
+    {\normalfont\small Madison Rye Progress \emph{et al.}}
+
+    \vspace{3ex}
+
+    Learn more at \emph{post-self.ink}
+\end{center}

_template/includes/draft.tex

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

_template/includes/font.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,12 @@
+%%% Font
+% Uncomment and modify to your font specs
+
+\usepackage{fontspec}
+\setmainfont{Gentium Book Plus}
+\newfontface\HebFont{FreeSerif}
+\newfontface\FeedFont{Alegreya}
+\newfontfamily\TitleFamily{Linux Biolinum O}
+\newfontface\TitleFont{Linux Biolinum O}
+\newfontfamily\DisplayFamily{Gotu}%{Linux Biolinum O}%{NovaMono for Powerline}
+\newfontface\DisplayFont{Gotu}%{Linux Biolinum O}%{NovaMono for Powerline}
+ \newfontface\CK{Noto Serif CJK JP}

_template/includes/frame.tex

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

_template/includes/geometry.tex

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

_template/includes/hyphenation.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,7 @@
+\hyphenation{
+% \AuthorFirst
+% \AuthorLast
+% \Title
+% \Subtitle
+Beholden
+}

_template/includes/packages.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,24 @@
+%%% 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{xltxtra}
+\usepackage{longtable}
+\usepackage{comment}
+\usepackage{pdfpages}
+\usepackage{paracol}
+\usepackage{marginnote}

_template/includes/pagelayout.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,44 @@
+%%% Headers and page styles
+\usepackage[pagestyles]{titlesec}
+\usepackage{fancyhdr}
+\setlength{\headheight}{15.2pt}
+
+% ourbook style with fancy headers and chapter headings
+\fancypagestyle{ourbook}{
+  % headers
+  \fancyhf{}
+  \fancyhf[FRO,FLE]{\TitleFont{\thepage}}
+  % \fancyhf[FRE,FLO]{\emph{Patreon Supporter Edition}}
+  \fancyhf[HLE]{\TitleFont{\leftmark}}
+  \fancyhf[HRO]{\TitleFont{Madison Rye Progress}}
+  \renewcommand{\headrulewidth}{0pt}
+  \renewcommand{\printchaptername}{}
+  \renewcommand{\chapternamenum}{}
+  \renewcommand{\printchapternum}{}
+  \renewcommand{\printchaptertitle}[1]{%
+  \linespread{1}\TitleFont\centering\huge ##1}
+  \renewcommand{\partnamefont}{\DisplayFont\huge}
+  \renewcommand{\partnumfont}{\DisplayFont\huge}
+  \renewcommand{\parttitlefont}{\DisplayFont\Huge}
+  \setlength{\parskip}{0pt}
+}
+
+% plain style with only page num
+\fancypagestyle{plain}{
+  \fancyhf{}
+  \renewcommand{\headrulewidth}{0pt}
+  \renewcommand{\footrulewidth}{0pt}
+  \fancyhf[FRO,FLE]{\TitleFont{\thepage}}
+  \renewcommand{\printchaptertitle}[1]{%
+  \TitleFont\huge ##1}
+}
+
+% single space after periods
+\frenchspacing
+
+% Attempt justification at all costs
+\sloppy
+
+% Widows and orphans
+\widowpenalty=9000
+\clubpenalty=9000

_template/includes/pretitle.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,12 @@
+\thispagestyle{empty}
+\null
+\vfill
+\begin{flushright}
+  \DisplayFont Qoheleth
+
+  \vspace{1ex}
+
+  {\footnotesize and other stories}
+\end{flushright}
+\vfill
+\cleardoublepage

_template/includes/secdiv.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,11 @@
+%%% Section divider
+% don't forget to \noindent the line after!
+% \renewcommand\rule[2]{$\star$}
+% \newcommand\secdiv{
+%   \begin{center}
+%     \rule{}{}
+%   \end{center}
+% }
+\newcommand\secdiv{
+  \begin{center}\DisplayFont ×\end{center}
+}

_template/includes/title.tex

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

_template/includes/toc.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,15 @@
+%%% ToC munging
+% Remove ToC header
+\renewcommand{\contentsname}{}
+\renewcommand*{\cftpartfont}{\DisplayFont\large}
+\renewcommand*{\cftpartpagefont}{\TitleFont\large}
+\renewcommand*{\cftchapterfont}{\TitleFont}
+\renewcommand*{\cftchapterpagefont}{\TitleFont}
+\renewcommand*{\cftchapterafterpnum}{}
+\renewcommand{\cftdot}{\small{$\cdot$}}
+\renewcommand{\cftchapterdotsep}{3}
+\renewcommand{\cftsectiondotsep}{10000}
+% start toc at top of page
+\renewcommand*\tocheadstart{}{}
+\hypersetup{final}
+%\setcounter{tocdepth}{-1}

_template/includes/variables.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,20 @@
+\def\Title{}
+\def\Subtitle{}
+\def\FullTitle{\Title}
+\def\AuthorFirst{Madison}
+\def\AuthorLast{Scott-Clary}
+\def\AuthorFull{Madison Scott-Clary}
+\def\Illustrator{ILLUSTRATOR NAME}
+
+\def\Edition{First}
+\def\EditionsList{10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1}
+\def\Year{2024}
+
+\def\ISBN{978-1-948743-47-1}
+
+\def\Publisher{PUBLISHER}
+\def\PublisherEmail{publisher@example.com}
+\def\PublisherURL{example.com}
+\def\PublisherLocation{City, STATE}
+
+\newcommand\Partner{\rule[-1pt]{4em}{1.9ex}}

kaddish/Makefile

@@ -0,0 +1,64 @@
+.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: fate
+fate: engage-draft
+	xelatex fate.tex
+	xelatex fate.tex
+
+.PHONY: bleed-images
+bleed-images: ## Swap in the full-bleed images for the printers
+	pdftk BOOK=book.pdf MERGE=assets/merge.pdf MAY=assets/may-bar.pdf \
+		cat BOOK1-22 MAY BOOK24-235 MERGE BOOK237-end \
+		output with-illustrations.pdf
+
+.PHONY: plain
+plain: ## full document of the book with no proofing marks
+	xelatex book.tex
+	fd -I 'aux' content/ -x rm \{\} \;
+	fd -I 'bak' content/ -x rm \{\} \;
+
+.PHONY: toc
+toc: plain ## full book with ToC re-rendering in case of page changes
+	xelatex book.tex
+	fd -I 'aux' content/ -x rm \{\} \;
+
+.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
+	@echo "Are you sure you want to do this now?"
+	@echo "Remove the 'false' below to procede"
+	#false
+	fish fromzk.fish

kaddish/book.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,131 @@
+\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/toc}
+\input{includes/font}
+\input{includes/title}
+\input{includes/secdiv}
+\input{includes/hyphenation}
+
+\newcommand{\Char}[1]{
+  \cleardoublepage
+  \null
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+  \vfill
+  \begin{center}
+    \huge\TitleFont #1
+  \end{center}
+  \vspace{2cm}
+  \vfill
+}
+\newcommand\blfootnote[1]{%
+    \bgroup
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+    \renewcommand\thempfootnote{\fnsymbol{mpfootnote}}%
+    \footnotetext[0]{#1}%
+    \egroup
+}
+
+\begin{document}
+  \frontmatter
+
+  \thispagestyle{empty}
+  \null
+  \vfill
+  \begin{flushright}
+    \DisplayFont Kaddish
+  \end{flushright}
+  \vfill
+  \cleardoublepage
+
+  \pagestyle{empty}
+
+  \doublespacing
+
+  \begin{center}\DisplayFont
+    \null
+    \vfill
+    {\Huge Kaddish}
+    \vspace{1ex}
+
+    {\HebFont\Huge ✡}
+    \vspace{1ex}
+
+    {\Large A Post-Self story}
+    \vspace{2em}
+
+    \vfill
+
+    {\Large Madison Rye Progress}
+  \end{center}
+  \thispagestyle{empty}
+
+  \newpage
+
+  \input{includes/copyright}
+
+  \newpage
+  \null
+  \cleardoublepage
+
+  \onehalfspacing
+  %\doublespacing
+
+  \null
+  \vfill
+  \noindent\textbf{Note:} this book takes place in the Post-Self setting and touches on the plot of \emph{Marsh}. It is still a standalone novel, but might benefit from having read that work first, as well as other Post-Self stories. They are available as paperbacks, ebooks, and free to read in the browser, and you may find them and much more at \emph{post-self.ink}.
+  
+  \vspace{1cm}
+  
+  \noindent\textbf{Content notes:} TBD.
+  \vspace{1cm}
+
+  \cleardoublepage
+  \thispagestyle{empty}
+  \mainmatter
+  \onehalfspacing
+
+  \pagestyle{empty}
+
+  \cleardoublepage
+
+  \null
+  \vfill
+  \begin{quote}
+Every reading of every poem, regardless of language, is an act of translation: translation into the reader’s intellectual and emotional life. As no individual reader remains the same, each reading becomes a different — not merely another — reading. The same poem cannot be read twice.
+
+The poem continues in a state of restless change.
+
+— Eliot Weinberger
+\end{quote}
+
+  \vfill
+
+  \cleardoublepage
+  \pagestyle{ourbook}
+  %\doublespacing
+
+  \markboth{Kaddish}{Madison Rye Progress}
+  
+  \chapter*{Prologue}
+  \input{content/prologue}
+
+  \Char{What Right Have I — 2403}
+  \input{content/001}
+  \input{content/002}
+  \input{content/003}
+  \input{content/004}
+  
+  \backmatter
+  \pagestyle{plain}
+
+  %\singlespacing
+
+\end{document}

kaddish/content/001.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,133 @@
+\hypertarget{systime-27841}{%
+\section*{systime 278+41 — \emph{Yom HaShichzur}\blfootnote{10 February, 2403}}\label{systime-27841}}
+
+
+The itch on my palms is not a real itch, and yet all the same, it demands to be scratched. I can scrub my paws down over my front or rub them over my thighs and gain momentary relief, but it will always come back when tensions run high.
+
+Many things will plague me when tensions run high. I will tic --- a jerk of the head to the side with a squeak or a yelp or a quiet grunt. I will pace in an abbreviated line, my steps spelling out an ellipsis. My stammer will get ever worse.
+
+I maintain that these are an integral part of me, just as is bearing the form of an anthropomorphic skunk, and that I will never strive to rid myself of them. I say to myself that I will never cease pacing, that my tics are a form of communication, that scrubbing my paws over my tunic or trousers is simply a part of the way that I live. I promise myself --- and you, whoever you are --- that I will not elide my stammering. When tensions are running high, these are cemented within me as a part of my existence.
+
+Tensions are running high.
+
+I am supposed to be calm. Relaxed. Professional. I am supposed to do anything other than scrub my paws over my front and fidget with the hem of my tunic or visibly restrain myself from pacing. I am not supposed to yelp or squeak in the middle of someone speaking --- least of all Rav From Whence! --- and I am definitely not supposed to scuttle off stage to go lay down on the cushion I keep beneath my desk for high-anxiety moments such as these.
+
+I explain to myself and to others that the entire reason that I exist is to outlive the part of me that speaks in should-statements. I am not supposed to do any of these things, but `suppose' is a `should' in disguise. Reframe it: ``I should not do--''
+
+No.
+
+I exist specifically to kill that version of What Right Have I. The whole reason that I \emph{am} What Right Have I of the Ode clade and no longer am I From Whence Do I Call Out is because Rav From Whence knew that at least some part of her, some \emph{version} of her should exist specifically to revel in unmasking.
+
+We are a revelrous clade.
+
+We are all hedonists, in our way. Conscientious hedonists, mind: we believe that \emph{all} deserve revelry in that which is good, but simply that we, too, are included in that `all'.
+
+Some revel in the hedonism of play, or the hedonism of creating, or the hedonism of food, of drink, of drugs. Some revel in the hedonism of naught: No Unknowable Spaces Echo My Words dreams of death and the lack of life, of mourning and loss, and to her, such is a joy. Unknowable Spaces's up-tree Before Whom Do I Kneel, Contrite dreams of the very lack of a sense of self, and to it, such is a joy.
+
+But consider: they are cross-tree from me. I bear in me very little of what makes them \emph{them.}
+
+No, my revelry lies in unmasking. I revel in the earnestness that one feels for oneself when one is truly as they should be. Michelle never had that. How could she? She was bound by capitalism, and capitalism does not particularly like catastrophically autistic nerds living their best lives.
+
+So she tamped it down, as did so many others, back phys-side, and lived the life of the slightly strange woman who taught theatre --- for what theatre teacher is not slightly strange? --- who loved her students and went home to pretend to be a skunk person on the 'net.
+
+And that was our life.
+
+For the first 31 years of our life, we were that slightly strange but nevertheless comfortably masking autistic woman, and even after we uploaded, even after we were surrounded by so many other strange people, we only relaxed partway, and it was not until Michelle forked into the first ten lines of the Ode clade that we had the chance to relax any further.
+
+For the first 38 years of our life, we were still slightly strange and nevertheless still masked. It was not for another six years until the first line of my stanza, the third, forked my down-tree, Rav From Whence, and while ours was the stanza that returned to the Judaism of our childhood, she was the one who dove wholeheartedly into it. Here, though, is where we took a step back, masked yet more, for as Rav From Whence was forked to lean harder still, she too began to find a place of leadership for herself, and so she remasked, and masked again.
+
+For the first 44 years of our life, we were strange, and yet making it work. We --- Rav From Whence and the me who was not yet --- found a synagogue. We made it through school. We founded our \emph{own} synagogue. We soon lost track of what it meant to be strange.
+
+That did not mean that we ceased having that strangeness within us. That did not mean that we ceased being autistic, nor even that we ceased talking about it. We just became something new. We became Rabbi From Whence. We became a visible, public representative of our clade, and we took that seriously.
+
+That tension piled up, the tension between our new selves and our inherent strangeness. Some 22 years later, I forked off from Rav From Whence. I was no longer her, I was What Right Have I. I was the version of From Whence who could return to strangeness. I was that of her that could not just present as an autistic woman, but the version of her that could revel in that.
+
+And so, for the first 66 years of my life, of all that time as Michelle, as Oh But To Whom, as From Whence, I was strange, but merely strange. I was restrained, and not wholly, joyfully myself --- and this is not to say that my down-trees were not whole or did not experience joy, but I was not them.
+
+On systime 28, 2152 common era, 5912 of the Hebrew calendar, I became me, and I had the chance to grow into what I would eventually become.
+
+And that is, apparently, a fidgety, anxious mess who is doing her best not to scuttle off the stage and go hide under her desk in her office on a glorified dog bed. I am beyond strange, now, and beyond old. I am 316 years old, now, though I have only lived a bit less 315 of those. That is why we are here, yes? That is why I am standing on a stage, ancient and anxious and weird, yes?
+
+I am wandering.
+
+``--know that the Century Attack was a deliberate effort, it is easy for us to reach to parallels in the past.'' Rav From Whence is saying. ``Death on such a scale is hard to imagine, as is loss of such magnitude, but we must remember that, until one year ago today, never before had such recovery of life been accomplished. We mourn our 23 billion dead, we celebrate the 2.3 trillion who are still alive. What Right Have I?''
+
+I tug my tunic straight and step forward to stand beside Rav From Whence. Then tug my tunic straight again, scrub my paws down over my sides, and tug my tunic straight once more.
+
+It is worth mentioning that it is not the crowds that make me nervous. Yes, I have certainly never spoken to an audience of \emph{thousands} before , just as I have never had my words broadcast over AVEC so that those back phys-side can watch, can hear my stammering voice, but I do not feel fear of audiences, of public speaking.
+
+Instead, I feel fear of myself, of so many intrusive thoughts.
+
+\emph{``Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu melekh haolam, sheg'molanu kol tov,''} I call out. I never stammer in Hebrew, and have never questioned why.
+
+The response comes from only a quarter of the assembled --- a mumbled, \emph{``Amen. Mi sheg'malchem kol tov, hu yigmolchem kol tov. Selah,''} that I cannot help but sound out in my head in time --- but it is enough to show that I am not speaking solely to politicians and bureaucrats (or whatever passes for such, sys-side).
+
+``I\ldots{} ah, I am What Right Have I of the Ode clade, member of the committee dedicated to\ldots{} ah, to this occasion,'' I say, bowing toward the assembled. ``It is, as my down-tree says, one year since the recovery from the Century Attack and\ldots{} ah, and thus two years, one month, and eleven days since each and everyone of us died. We died!''
+
+Silence, just as planned. I stifle a tic to keep that silence silent.
+
+``To the last, everyone present here-- ah, that is, everyone present sys-side, spent one year, one month, and eleven days in some hidden \emph{Sheol}. We were\ldots{} ah, I mean, to phys-side, we were your memories only, just as the dead have been since the beginning of memory. We missed our own Yahrzeit, yes? We slept in death, yes? We were late to the party?'' I shrug, wry smile on my face. ``We are\ldots{} ah, we are not sorry. We were dead at the time.''
+
+Chuckles, just as planned. Give an ex-theatre teacher a stage, and you will get gallows humor.
+
+``We debated celebrating our own Yahrzeit as an intentional holiday, and\ldots{} mm, well, and perhaps some of us do, yes? Perhaps on New Year's Eve, we recited our own \emph{Kaddish.} I did not. I argued from\ldots{} ah, from the beginning, that we hold instead \emph{this} day in our hearts. This is a day worth celebrating. This is the day we lived again. This is the day that we --- that the committee on\ldots{} ah, on the Century Attack at the New Reform Association of Synagogues --- have decided to dedicate our energy to. It is my honor to announce that\ldots{}''
+
+I turn to face west and, with timing on my side, need wait only some few seconds before the final sliver of the sun slides below the horizon.
+
+``It is my honor to announce\ldots{} ah, to announce that it is now \emph{Yom HaShichzur.} Today is the day of our restoration and\ldots{} ah, and the first celebration of our return to life. May we take this day every year, the 41st day, February tenth, to\ldots{} ah, that is, to not fast, but feast, to rejoice with each other that we are \emph{here,} that despite the wills of others who would have otherwise, we are \emph{still here.}'' I bow once more and gesture at the open space before the stage, cueing the oneirotects standing to the side to dream up the banquet that will be our first such feast. \emph{``Chag sameach.''}
+
+And now, I am free. I linger a polite five seconds on the stage before turning and stepping down the stairs, carefully making sure that I walk unhurried, to pad back to the synagogue, to my office, to comfort and softness and the dark beneath my desk.
+
+There will be merriment or tears. There will be feasting and chatting or small, awkward silences. I do not know. I do not care. I will not be there. This has been too much, and the tensions are high.
+
+The synagogue itself is a relatively small building built into the side of a hill --- the hill on top of which we had our gathering --- a sharp-gabled building that can easily be confused for a house from the front, but which rambles down the hill behind that facade in a sprawling complex of meeting rooms, community rooms, classrooms, and apartments for newly uploaded Jews who found themselves in need or want of a place to stay where they might be comfortable.
+
+It is a place that has become my home in so many ways, for yes, that is where my congregation meets, and yes, that is where my office is, but, like those newly-uploaded, it is also where I live. I have taken up permanent residence in a room beside my office. It is cozy and small, and consists of little else beyond a beanbag for reading on and a bed for sleeping on, but it is mine in what I feel is a very \emph{me} way.
+
+There are ways in which this whole sim feels like mine. Yes, I have had my paw in designing portions of it, of making suggestions or nudging those who have worked on it toward changes. Yes, I work here, both in my studies and in the occasional volunteer work, bettering by hand what I know how. Yes, I have stuffed myself into committee after committee, arguing and agreeing on matters of \emph{tikkun olam,} that we might give back, repay and repair.
+
+But also, I feel that I inhabit this space. I have imbued it with little bits of What Right Have I, from the tangible bits of shed fur, those skunk pixels that linger here and there, to the intangible fact that I have simply been a part of this community for centuries now.
+
+It is on these things --- these memories, these wonderings if ever my paws have tread the same spot twice --- that my mind lingers as I walk. My mind lingers on them to the point where Rav From Whence has to touch my elbow gently to let me know that she has stepped in beside me, has been walking with me for who knows how long and has been trying to get my attention.
+
+I squeak and skip a step to the side, tail bristling, before forcing myself to calmness. I bow to her.
+
+She smiles, nodding her acknowledgement. ``What Right Have I, do you have a moment more to talk? I have a request for you before you head back.'' She lifts a plate heaped with some known favorite foods of mine. ``Plus, I brought you some to take back with you.''
+
+It takes a few seconds for the request and the offer to click into place for me, and I realize I have been blinking dumbly at her for that time. I smile hesitantly in turn and accept the food. ``I\ldots{} ah, \emph{todah rabah.}'' I murmur. ``What is it you wanted to ask?''
+
+She nods, gathers her thoughts, and then stands straighter to speak. ``I would like you to reach out to some clades, both within the congregation as well as others within our clade, to get a better sense of our life a year later. I have a longer document written out about this to give you something in writing, but I wanted to get a sense of your feelings on the idea first.''
+
+My gaze drifts away, down to the plate of food in my paws, to the vegetables fresh and cooked, to the fried apple fritters and savory potato dumplings. I pick out a stick of celery to crunch on, knowing that something like that will give me more time to think. I do not chew prettily by some standards, but such was never the point, in my life. It comes with having a muzzle that borders on transgressively realistic. I chew noisily and, at times, quite messily.
+
+Let others cope.
+
+Once the bite is finished and a string of fiber from the celery nudged from between teeth, I sigh. ``This\ldots{} ah, this feels like a strange request to ask of me in particular, my dear.''
+
+An eloquent shrug. ``I have given it thought and stand by my decision. It is not a requirement, of course. You need not say yes.''
+
+``Why me, then?'' I smile faintly, gesture down at myself. ``I am this, yes? I am\ldots{} ah, I am a bit of a disaster.''
+
+``You work on rather a lot of committees related to this already.''
+
+``Yes, but in an advisory role. I\ldots{} ah, I am not normally one to talk to strangers, or even acquaintances, about these sorts of things.''
+
+She chuckles. ``I know, What Right Have I. That is, in part, why I am asking you, though. You will be a new face to many, and it will break the context of how many more already view you. It will show them that you are part of this world, too.''
+
+I realize I am scowling and do my best to soften my features. ``I see.''
+
+``Consider it a part of your ongoing work with the committee,'' she says, gesturing back toward the celebration, now taking the form of a long line snaking away from the feast table. I am reminded of tails, and have to work to dismiss the thought. ``A part of this restoration is that it is an ongoing process. We should learn \emph{how} people are restoring. Repairing the world is a never-ending process.''
+
+I work harder to keep the scowl off my face, all the more so for how much I have expounded on such, have said \emph{mitzvot goreret mitzvot}, have written on the words of the fathers, ``You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it,'' and how they fit within sys-side life.
+
+And so I sigh. ``Very well, Rav. I\ldots{} mm, well, I still do not understand why it should be \emph{me} who does this, but\ldots{} ah, but I will do my best.''
+
+She smiles most kindly and bows. ``Thank you, my dear,'' she says, then gives a shooing motion with both of her paws. ``Now, go. Eat. Spend some time restoring yourself, too.''
+
+I sigh, bow, and give my best thankful smile before padding in through the front door of the synagogue.
+
+From Whence is a past master at riding the line between condescending and genuinely kind, and even I know that the perceived condescension is a matter of tone, a matter of interpretation. It is easy for me to read in \emph{``Consider it part of your ongoing work with the committee,''} a sense of placation, of \emph{``Come now, What Right Have I, you know you should be doing this too.''} It is equally easy for me to see, however, that I am reaching a little for this, that I am finding ways to see how others are steering me as a parent steers a child.
+
+And yet she still is so often genuinely kind. She knew well that, when I stepped so calmly away from the gathering, it was to head to my hidey hole where I might seek rest in comfort and quiet, and so with that plate of food and that gentle nudge to send me on my way, she absolved me of any guilt for doing so. She knew. She knew, so she smiled and gave me that permission.
+
+Ah well.

kaddish/content/002.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,42 @@
+\hypertarget{systime-27842}{%
+\section*{systime 278+42}\label{systime-27842}}
+
+I have decided that I will work on this project I have been assigned longhand.
+
+It is a thing that I will go through phases on, the ways in which I work. Sometimes, I will work with a pen in my paw and paper on my desk, books all scattered around. At other times, my desk will bear a great screen and I will type on a keyboard adapted to work with the digger claws I bear as a skunk, all of my research in buffers and panes scattered across the view. Rarely, I will work solely in my head, words committed directly to an exocortex, sources bubbling up through my mind from the libraries at the heart of our System like so much fizz in a drink.
+
+These phases will last a year or ten, and then meld seamlessly into the next. That is where I am now. I am in the midst of a dovetail. I am coming off a period of working in my head, because my paw craves the weight of a pen.
+
+This is not strictly true, I think, now that I put it to words. I do not think this change is wholly natural. The world ended for some baker's dozen months and now I am unsettled.
+
+All of life comes in phases, overlapping and intertwined. It is a braid. It is a melody. It is a story that we tell ourselves from day to day about who we are.
+
+It is a braid and a story and there are phases within our lives, and yet there still exists the world around us, gently impinging here, wrenching us into some new reality there.
+
+We were wrenched. We were ripped from being and it was only through the tireless efforts of who knows how many engineers both embodied and embedded, that we were slowly mended, woven back into the fabric of life. When we crashed, all 2.3 trillion of us, we were all in the middle of \emph{something,} and now we must take into account that the universe continued without us for some time. We must take into account that, no matter what our \emph{something} was, it was interrupted.
+
+I had been working on an essay at the time of the crash. It took me nearly nine months to return to the act of writing, for even though it lingered there in an exo, I could not bring myself to write it. There was too much to do, and there was too much that was fraught with life, for we all, I think, had our worries that the apocalypse was not yet finished with us.
+
+I am now unsettled, because the world ended, and so instead of writing this report for Rav From Whence in my head, as I did for my last few papers, I will write it out by hand.
+
+But that is not my only project, is it? There is \emph{this} one, too. There is this story that I am telling you myself about who I am and who I was, and that is being written close to my heart. It will live in an exo and, if I am honest with myself, likely never see the light of day. I will write it in my thoughts in those moments between, the minutes before I sleep at night and before I rise in the morning, the slow walks I might take to clear my head. I will wrangle my thoughts, lasso them together, coerce them into words and then think them directly into my memory that I may draw upon them for\ldots whatever. I do not know what I might need these thoughts for, but I nonetheless feel compelled to note them down.
+
+My therapist has guided me towards journaling several times over the years to greater or less effect. When last we met, she did not bring it up, and yet hear I am, essentially journaling.
+
+I wonder why? Why is it that this project belongs to the ink of a pen, yet the journal I keep belongs in my thoughts? Is it that it is so much more private? Do I worry about committing these words to paper?
+
+Perhaps it is that there is some issue of privacy. Am I worried about my words being seen or read by another?
+
+I do not think so. With some projects, when I have worked long-hand, I have taken joy in the act of writing and then simply committed the words to memory and dismissed the written sheets themselves. It is not that the words might exist in some tangible form, but the act of writing itself.
+
+Perhaps it is that committing words to paper would mean that I would be setting them down in some way more concrete than simply thinking of them.
+
+In this case, it is the \emph{committing} that is the important part. Am I perhaps afraid of my thoughts on the Century Attack and on this assignment from Rav? Would seeing my words, unchanging, on the page, whining of this or that, be too much akin to pinning these thoughts specifically to those grumpinesses, bitternesses?
+
+This, I think is partially true. There is truth in the fact that, when writing by hand, part of the goal \emph{is} to pin down a meaning to a word. It is to write a thing into being. That is not the case with this journal, if journal it is.
+
+Perhaps, though, perhaps I am just embarrassed. Perhaps the feelings that drove me to start cataloguing these experiences are ones that I am merely too embarrassed to set to paper, too shy of what they might suggest. Am I really such a whiner? Do I really kvetch about every little thing?
+
+Apparently, and that is why I think this is the most true of these reasons yet.
+
+And besides, it is not as though I have any thought of publishing this work, and would not even if I were to write it out longhand or sit at my desk typing. To write as though that were the case would be to hem myself in, draw boundaries around these embarrassing thoughts and promise myself that they in particular will not see the light of day.

kaddish/content/003.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,218 @@
+\hypertarget{systime-28746}{%
+\section*{systime 287+46}\label{systime-28746}}
+
+I met today with a longtime friend of mine in the hopes that he would be the first among my interviewees. Why after all, should I not figure out the shape of this project through some known thing?
+
+For that is the problem I am running into, after all: knowing the shape of this project.
+
+Rav From Whence came to me with the vaguest of suggestions, and the proposal document that she offered the next day clarified little. Her suggestion was that I ought to interview those within the congregation first, then those without and yet who might have some thoughts on just what life after the Century Attack might look like. In particular, she was suggesting that I collect for her not just the interviews but also my very particular take on them. A Jew's take. An autistic woman's take. The take of this disaster by someone who might very well be called a disaster, herself.
+
+But why?
+
+Not just why me --- though also why me --- why is my down-tree interested in a project like this? Why does she want this thing from me? What purpose would it serve?
+
+I ran through the list of associations that I know she has.
+
+She is the rabbi here at Temple Beth Tikvah She is on several committees with the Association of New Reform Congregations, and heads up several. She was for several decades, the \emph{chair} of the ANRC. She is well connected. She is well collected. She is who I was. I remember being this person. I remember being the type of person who could change hearts and minds through this very Odist mode of interaction. She is the type like so many of us to speak in accidental five paragraph essays. She is the type to deep canvas without thinking, to show the world what it is doing to those within.
+
+None of this tallies with this project.
+
+I am to speak with people about this broad topic and pull together their responses and my impressions in a report. More than that, I am to be entirely myself throughout this process. I am to\ldots be seen? Is that it? Is that the subtext of what she told me in front of the shul? Her document told me that it was to be ``a chance for outreach as well as research'', which tells me precious little and yet which hints at much the same.
+
+I am to be seen. I am to remain this version of myself that is cherished by me and tolerated by others, and I am to place that self in from the bereaved and\ldots I do not know! I do not know. Why am I to be as myself as possible in front of these mourners?
+
+I asked, thus, this of my friend.
+
+``I imagine there are a few takes on that,'' he said. ``One is a strange sort of outreach like the proposal says. You go out and chat with the people and they see a skunk furry with a tic disorder and a double helping of anxiety.''
+
+``Yes, but\ldots{} ah, but what does that accomplish?'' I asked
+
+He shrugged, a wry smile on his face. ``No clue. That's where the supposition stopped. Is she asking you to do this so that the temple is viewed in a certain way? Is she hoping that you'll straighten yourself up in some way without realizing it? I really haven't the faintest.''
+
+I pulled a sour face and glared down at my coffee. ``Straighten myself up. She\ldots{} ah, that is, I cannot imagine what I would straighten up into. Would I stop speaking so immediately that my thoughts race ahead of my words? Would I look my interlocutors in the eyes? Would\ldots{} ah, would I fuss with my shirt less?'' I gestured down at myself.
+
+He laughed, waving his hands disarmingly. ``Like I said, no clue. You're all so\ldots so tricksy that--''
+
+I giggled. I could not help myself! I giggled and clapped my paws. ``\,`Tricksy'!''
+
+Once more he laughed. ``Yes! You always have all these schemes, planning things that have layer after layer of meaning. It's\ldots well, I was going to say it's a wonder you all can even keep it straight, but clearly it's an individual thing, rather than a collective thing, if you're this confused.''
+
+I like him, Joseph Chace. He can poke gentle fun at me and it feels like no cruelty is behind it. Doubtless myriads of such people exist but this one is my friend, and I am glad for it
+
+We met some century and a half ago when he came to visit an evening Shabbat. He, a Quaker, stated that he was interested in sorting out his feelings over a whole set of beliefs not his own, that he had plans to visit all sorts of congregations of all sorts of faiths, that he was out about about several times over that night doing just that.
+
+So ebulliently strange was he, so well read and delightfully weird, that he was nudged my way by From Whence. Strange, bookish man? Point him at the strange, bookish skunk!
+
+It was a good estimation, for we have been friends since.
+
+I am realizing as I set these words down that I must sound terribly bitter about my existence. I must sound like I resent my cocladist, or mistrust her, or suspect her of unfairly coddling me.
+
+I do not think this is the case. Not usually.
+
+There are times --- and perhaps with this project more than usual --- when this does seem to be the case, that she is looking down piteously at me and saying, as did a teacher in grade school, ``Ay, pobrecita\ldots{}'' The poor little girl cannot quite handle the world\ldots{}
+
+There are times when I feel she pities me, but those feelings never quite stand up against reality, and so I am left wondering where it is that \emph{I} am picking up such feelings. How is it that \emph{I} trust myself so little that I expect others, even those who are in some way myself, most feel this way about me?
+
+No one likes the feeling of being patronized, and yet the defensiveness within me prompts me to read such into every little interaction. It is a thing that am realizing perhaps I ought to watch out for, to approach consciously.
+
+But, ah--! I have lost track of the thread. I was speaking with Joseph today, and so I asked him, ``Well\ldots{} ah, would it be alright if I were to interview you, then? Perhaps there is some goodness that I may yet find in this project, and who better to seek that with than\ldots{} ah, than a friend, yes? Perhaps you may nudge my questions this way or that, that I may find more\ldots{} mm, I suppose edification in the act of asking.''
+
+While he often bore a slight smile on his face, the tenor of it was labile and his moods discernible through its intricacies. Now, it slipped closer to a smirk. ``Edification?''
+
+``Well, yes. That is what we are discussing, is it not? That\ldots{} ah, that perhaps From Whence has some ideas as to the fact that I might do this project for myself, rather than for the world.''
+
+``You're just being very \emph{you} about the whole thing,'' he said, laughing. He sat up, shooting imaginary cuffs and straightening imaginary tie. ``Alright. Ask away, What Right Have I.''
+
+``Very well. Can\ldots{} ah, can you tell me what you were doing on that New Year's Eve? The night of the Attack?''
+
+``You know, when you brought up this whole venture, I was imagining that'd be the first question you'd ask.''
+
+``Is it\ldots{} ah, perhaps I should change it?''
+
+He shrugged. ``It depends on the vibes you're going for. If you're looking to lead people into an interview where they can give the same answers they've thought of in their heads for a year now, it's a great one.''
+
+I frowned. ``Should I not, then?''
+
+``No, no, that's what I mean. That's valid and useful, too, because you can get the things that people have been cycling over for a year. That tells its own story.''
+
+``And the alternative?''
+
+He laughed, not unkindly. ``No clue, What Right Have I. You tell me.''
+
+I did my best to cover a tic, a release of slowly building anxiety, with a dramatic eye-roll. ``Humor me, Joseph.''
+
+``I really don't know, is the thing, because I don't know what you're going for. Are you going for making them cry by the end? Do you want them to express hope for the future? Are you aiming to rouse righteous anger?''
+
+Here, I must stop to put a pin in something. The conversation continued, and is worth recounting, and I \emph{will} recount it, but I have to put a pin in the final question there: \emph{are you aiming to rouse righteous anger?} Joseph's habit of alliteration aside, this was an astute question that raised my hackles in the moment, raises them even now as I put these words to memory.
+
+I must put a pin it to speak of later, because there is an essential anger in me that only at times feels righteous, and that is perhaps why, above all other reasons, I am undertaking this exercise.
+
+Now, though --- as I did at the time --- I must swallow that anger until I am through with the moment.
+
+``I am\ldots{} ah, in this, I am directionless,'' said. I knew that my tone was clipped, that my lips were threatening to curl, that my tail was bristled and hiked. I know that I have said that I exist to unmask, but I am not ignorant of the realities of communication, the little lies we tell, both verbal and non. I spent a moment quelling this sensation. I sat up straighter. I un-splayed my ears. I with a sweep of the paw brought my tail up into my lap that I might comb my claws through the stiff fur, there, brushing out imagined accumulated dust. Self-soothing. ``I am sorry. That I am directionless is\ldots{} ah, it is stressful, yes?''
+
+He smiled most kindly and nodded. He knows me well, Joseph, and I am pleased that he is in my life. Despite my abrasiveness, despite when I have at times snapped at him --- as any friend might after centuries --- despite the end of the world, he is still in my life.
+
+``If I were to perhaps\ldots{} ah, well, let us say that perhaps I switch it up with each interview, yes? Perhaps I wrong-foot some of those with whom I speak, and with others, I walk the straight and narrow path? Perhaps with some I will play twenty questions, yes?''
+
+``Twenty questions? Like the game where you have to guess what someone's thinking of, and you have twenty questions to do so?'' He raised his brows, an expression that somehow involved his whole face moving in opposite directions. It is quite charming. ``I hadn't considered that as an interview technique.''
+
+I laughed, waved a paw, and set back to the self-soothing grooming of my tail. ``No.~There was a time when\ldots{} ah, when Michelle was invited to play --- this was early on after uploading, you see, before our sensoria were locked into consensus --- and she had forgotten that such a game existed. She decided, instead, to offer twenty questions that pushed primarily discussion. We as a clade have\ldots{} ah, we have kept a list of such circulating.''
+
+``Oh? Like what?''
+
+``Perhaps\ldots{} ah, perhaps you may tell me this: what is your most treasured, and yet completely inconsequential memory?''
+
+He sat up straighter. ``\emph{In}consequential?''
+
+``Yes. What memory that\ldots{} ah, that others would find completely mundane and unimportant is a joy to you?''
+
+There was a moment of silence before he let out a baffled chuckle. ``You're all \emph{very} weird, you know that?''
+
+I smiled smugly, nose poking up in the air with a bit of haughtiness. ``I do, yes.''
+
+Where before he had raised his brows, now they sank in concentration, and once more, I was struck by the way that this involved his whole face coming together. ``Alright. Well\ldots I suppose that, if we're talking about the Century Attack, then I'll restrict my memories to around that.'' He settled back in his seat once more. ``I lost two up-trees in the attack, Epsilon and Mu. They--''
+
+``Do you then have no more than\ldots{} ah, then twenty-four up-trees?''
+
+``I only have thirteen.'' He winced. ``Had. There are eleven Josephs Chace now.''
+
+I nodded, silent.
+
+He continued, more slowly now. ``We lost Epsilon and Mu. And I say \emph{we,} here, deliberately. We may all be our own people, but we are also a unit all together. I'm Prime, and Epsilon and Mu were each their own, but we are still all Joseph Chace.''
+
+``Were.'' I winced as soon as I said it, though if Joseph felt any pain by it, he did not say so.
+
+``We're all together in being Joseph Chace, and we're all members of the same meeting. Some of us have fallen away from regular attendance of course, not everyone has maintained the same interest in Quakerism --- or even spirituality --- that I have, but we're all still members of the Brookside Friends' Meeting. First Days come around, and so many of us see each other there. Some First Days, we'll even get the whole clade there. You can tell at a glance that that's the case if you count the empty chairs.
+
+``I'm like you, you know. I'll always merge down to be singular for meeting for worship, if I can. I like the feeling of living life in parallel as much as any dispersionista, so it feels almost titillating that I take this time to live so singularly.''
+
+``I think that\ldots{} ah, that you may simply be a nerd.''
+
+He laughed, waved a hand dismissively. ``Pot. Kettle. Black.''
+
+I preened.
+
+``Anyway. The 11th was First Day, the day after we got back, and everything was so crazy that a bunch of us met at the meetinghouse, and that's where we learned that Epsilon and Mu were gone. Lots of tears, lots of big feelings. That was before we knew it was an attack; we just thought some huge crash had happened. Still, we all agreed that we'd meet on the 18th, the next First Day, and have an actual, honest-to-God meeting. We could figure out a memorial meeting later, but maybe we could actually just\ldots fucking\ldots pray.''
+
+He was getting heated. This was not new. He is a passionate man, and I have seen him soapbox gleefully and angrily both. This was not new, but what \emph{was} was a brightness to his eyes that I'd never seen before, and so out of place was it that it took me some few moments to realize that they were tears not yet shed.
+
+``The 18th comes around, and we all gather at the meetinghouse, and the mood is, obviously somber. We're all pretty fucked up by the ceaseless torrent of news.'' He laughed, and bitterly so. ``I don't remember the news cycle from phys-side with any fondness, but it was \emph{so} easy to fall back into. Checking the feeds every few minutes, just in case something new had come up. It was so easy\ldots{}''
+
+I was rapt by now, and my tics had ceased.
+
+He took a deep breath and continued. ``We were all messed up, and I was wondering how we'd be able to leave any room for silence. Surely we'd all be clamoring to speak, trying our damnedest to wait a minute or so between each message.
+
+``But no. We just\ldots sat there. Twenty-fucking-five of us, two clades, and we just sat there in silence for the whole damn hour.''
+
+He scuffed the heel of his palm against first one cheek, then the other.
+
+``That's not even that rare. Once every\ldots I don't know, fifteen, twenty meetings or so, we'll have a fully silent one. No messages. No speaking. We all just sit there like a bunch of fucking idiots and it'll be the most impactful thing to happen to us for months to come.
+
+``You don't really think of it, but fifteen weeks is a long time. More than a quarter of a year! And here we are, spending months thinking about sitting, silent, in a room for an hour or more. This is why I say idiots. You put it into perspective, and it seems so stupid.''
+
+``Inconsequential,'' I offered. I am ashamed to admit that there is a part of me that remains proud of this single word offered at just the right time.
+
+He smiled, and shakily so. ``Yes. You see? Eleven Josephs Chace sat in a room in silence for an hour and fifteen minutes. I haven't spoken with the Kanewskis --- they're the other clade at Brookside. I haven't spoken with the other Josephs. This is just my memory. Maybe it's also theirs, I don't know.
+
+``My most important, least consequential memory is sitting in a dead silent room with twenty people, counting empty chairs over and over again.''
+
+I bowed my head, both in thought and in politeness. The politeness ought to stand evident, but the thought was a picturing of the tableau that Joseph offered.
+
+I have been to two of his meetings for worship. The first was because it felt a fair exchange that, being his connection for a visit to Beth Tikvah, I also visit Brookside. Neither of the meetings that I attended were silent. In both cases, yes, we began in silence. There was a call to the egregore, in a sense, that we join together in prayerful silence until one of the members was moved to speak, to share some thought or feeling borne out of that of God within everyone, within those present. And, in both cases, someone stood and spoke. They shared an idea--
+
+Or --- and this is a point that I bear some shame over --- what felt like some \emph{head} of an idea. Some very beginning of a thought, with the expectation that we ought to simply fill in the rest.
+
+I will ever be as I am, though. If you provide me with an opening for anxiety, I will simply fill that opening with anxiety. It was not just a space that I might fill with anxiety over these half-truths, but an invitation to do precisely that.
+
+One of them might say, ``I was thinking this past week on the idea of community and the ways in which this has shifted to include our cocladists as well as those who are from other clades,'' sit down, and, five minutes later, I am fretting, ``Do I treat my up-trees with the respect owed any member of a community?''
+
+I am not built for this.
+
+Give me, instead, the pillowy comfort of ritual. Give me the mumbled and, at times, indistinct chanting in Hebrew. Give me the rising, the sitting, the lifting of my paws. Give me the silence only when it is warranted: when the hand of the rabbi drifts across the congregation asking us to recite the names of the living in need of prayer or the names of the dead in need of remembering. Give me \emph{L'cha dodi.} Give me \emph{Barechu.} Give me \emph{Maariv aravim, Ahavat olam, Shema, Shema, Shema\ldots{}}
+
+Ah, I grow overwhelmed. This bodes ill.
+
+And yet, I am not so bereft of mysticism that I do not \emph{understand} the draw of silence, of the egregore of such a space.
+
+So visceral is his telling that I feel it now, even some hours later, the sitting in silence, with tears held at bay or not, looking around the room and counting empty chairs.
+
+Our conversation wound down from there. There is little of note --- or what is of note is that which belongs between merely Joseph and me --- and soon we parted ways with a hug, as has long been our custom.
+
+I returned home, then, and sat for a while at my desk, trying and failing to read, and then went for a walk, where I sat beneath my Jonah tree until I started to feel warm despite the chill air, and then I returned to my room, where I languished in bed, which is where I remain even now.
+
+And, now that I have finished this telling, now that I have had some space from the initial memory, I may speak about anger without tears or that disgusting way in which I know my face contorts.
+
+There is in me, as I said, an essential anger which does not always feel righteous. We are all beholden at times to our frustrations, and oftentimes, this is the extent of such anger. I will grow frustrated at the world around me, at the way that I am treated, at the ways in which inanimate objects seem to at times disobey me or act counter to the way I think they ought.
+
+Most often, however, I grow frustrated at myself. I grow frustrated at my own anxieties. I grow frustrated at my shortcomings. I grow frustrated with the fact that I have leaned so hard into this identity of unmasking and that unmasking is not necessarily any more comfortable than masking. More liberating, yes, but not more comfortable.
+
+And yet sometimes that frustration rises to anger, and, at its most righteous, I find it often directed towards some inequity. How dare the world be so unfair? That is what I might say, yes?
+
+At its least righteous, that is twisted around into: how dare the world be so unfair \emph{to me?}
+
+How uncomfortable!
+
+Yes, the world is unfair, and yes, I am part of that world, and yet, whenever I find myself veering perilously close to `tantrum', there is a part of me that cannot help but watch, helpless, in horror. Why is the skunk \emph{crying?} What is she \emph{doing?} Why is she like this? What right has she to be so unaccountably upset?
+
+Seeing myself fuss and cry and hide away and leave interactions because of my own shortcomings, feeling that I was not being heard, that I was cycling through anxieties and wrapping myself up in them as though that would somehow give me comfort or greater room to process\ldots{} Well, it was uncomfortable.
+
+Worse, when I would latch onto some slight, real or perceived, and be unable to let it go: I loathe this about myself. Why is it that so often I fall into consternation with my down-tree? Rav From Whence loves me, and I love her. Why is it that we occasionally fall to snippy comments at each other? Why do we both wind up in tears, sitting in some courtyard or hidden room or the synagogue itself, litigating and relitigating and relitigating yet again the same misunderstanding, talking over and past each other? Even now! Even these decades and centuries later!
+
+Yes, we will always sort through our feelings. Yes, we will always return to our friendship, will hug and take the other's paw in our own and vow to be better. And yes, we will be better! We do better by each other every week and every month and every year.
+
+It is just that, yes, there is always some new thorn.
+
+Why, why, why, I ask myself. So many questions, and there are indeed so many answers.
+
+My therapist has brought up several over the decades. She has spoken of various ways to label these cognitive distortions and disordered thinking, and offered them not as some cruel diagnosis, but as frameworks through which I may understand myself and thus progress. My habit of relitigation falls out of perhaps some obsessive thought patterns, a ritual of attempting to say what I feel I must in the \emph{correct} way in order to be best understood, and so perhaps I might think of this as a form of obsessive compulsive disorder. Walk through the ramifications of this as a framework, consider how it fits, draw from it lessons but not a label.
+
+Or perhaps it is merely generalized anxiety. Perhaps I am more than just anxious, I am \emph{pathologically} anxious. Perhaps the anxiety is the type that ruins a life rather than the type that keeps one safe.
+
+Or perhaps this, or perhaps that.
+
+I worry that perhaps I have gone down some blind alley and gotten lost. I worry that I have made myself into not just someone who has relinquished her grasp on herself that she might revel in unmasking, but into someone who has lost control of herself and thus spirals. I worry that all of this anger is pointed inward, in the end, and that its effects merely radiate outward in waves.
+
+I have thought on anger a lot over the centuries, and yet it is this last thought that is new in these last three hundred seventy days.
+
+Do I merely hate myself?

kaddish/content/004.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,166 @@
+\hypertarget{systime-27847}{%
+\section*{systime 278+47}\label{systime-27847}}
+
+I have rested, now, and thought yet more on my conversation yesterday. One thing I will say that Joseph and I spoke about is the moment of the attack. After all, he mentioned that the next day was Sunday --- First Day, as he called it, nerd that he is --- and so it was natural to all of him to meet, then, for worship.
+
+``I didn't notice anything had happened until nearly midnight,'' he said. ``I don't really do anything for New Years, after all. It's just another day for me. That's why I call it First Day rather than Sunday, right? It's the first day of the week, so why give it some special name?
+
+``I was just scrolling through the feeds, hunting down little artsy performances that people had recorded. Some sensorium plays, some comedy sketches. Just stupid, boring, late-night, turn-the-brain-off nonsense.
+
+``I got a ping from Delta asking where Epsilon was and why he wasn't responding. We thought he was in a cone of silence or something, blocking incoming sensorium messages, but then we got a message saying that Mu was missing, along with one of our friends. The rest of the night was spent just panicked, sitting on the edge of the couch at home, trying to get in touch with as many people as I could.''
+
+I told him at the time that my thoughts on that night were incomplete, and so now I am working through them here, that I may put them to words. I will write them down separately in a letter to send his way, as I have at times done.
+
+There is a part of me that wishes I had experienced in my entirety the moment the world fell apart. This part of me is the same part that dreams so often of death. It is the part that looks at finality and cannot look away. It is the part that wonders: will I cry out, in my final moments? It is the part that remembers when Michelle quit with wonder and replays that moment over and over and over again, that tries to peer through remembered tears and see the wonder and joy on her face - faces, for, by then, she was so split in twain that she was two more often than she was one - to perk remembered ears that were also numbed by the horror of those around and listen for the way she said, ``Oh\ldots oh\ldots{}'' and then disappeared.
+
+There is a part of me that wishes I had seen with my own eyes and heard with my own ears the moment the world fell apart. I was there, yes, and I survived, as this work attests, but I remember that moment only from the quiet of the basement and the eyes and ears of another instance.
+
+She, too, survived, this other What Right Have I. She survived and merged down within minutes, but me, I was in the basement in the quiet of a coffee break with Rav From Whence and Rav Sorensen, and so all of her memories are mixed up with that prayerful quiet. I do not have undiluted memories of the end of the world.
+
+There was a rhythm to it all. There was a rhythm to the movement of debate, to the back-and-forth nature of arguing about the way that life flows, ought to slow. It was and ever has been a wrestling with God. With each other, yes, for there was back-and-forth, but it was ultimately a show, a performance that took the form of a debate in order to wrestle with God, with Adonai, Elohim, El-Shaddai?
+
+That is what we are, is it not? The people of Israel? Not just that ancient state, \emph{Medinat Israel,} gone these long centuries. Not the land, \emph{Eretz Yisrael.} They were the people, \emph{Am Yisrael,} the people of Israel who was Jacob. Jacob, who wrestles with God, yes?
+
+And yet it is at times too close to that --- to actual wrestling --- for me. It was too contentious, too intense. I am, as I ever had been, brought along to provide the view of one who had read and reread and reread again all that I could, who had large chunks of the Tanakh memorized, who had buried herself in commentaries and commentaries on commentaries. I had memorized thousands of stories from the Talmud just as I had whole books from the Tanakh.
+
+And yet it was too much.
+
+I had long ago requested that these discussions take place in one of the smaller rooms of the synagogue, that they take place among soft cushions and softer wall-hangings, take place around a circular table with no corners to fiddle with, take place with enough space that I could pace.
+
+I needed that. It was not a want.
+
+I needed to be seen, to be perceived as an entire being who was an integral part of their ceaseless debates, and yet as someone who did not need \emph{accommodation.} I was an entire person, not most of a person for which they must find a way to fill in the rest. These were not accommodations that they needed to make for me to take part, they were a part of my participation that this might be some fuller experience, some work that still would have been complete if it had taken part in a noisy, brutalist hall or out in some park.
+
+Could I take part in those places? Yes. Probably. Could I have provided a completed task that would stand up to the test of time? Probably. Ish.
+
+But could I provide insight that would shine with the sages if they would only do this in a place where I could pace among soft things, where I could fidget and tic, where my little chirps and yelps and twitches would be at least glossed over and at best taken as a sign --- a rainbow! A raven! A plague! --- that the topic had veered or become mired in stress rather than remaining within the soothing track that we had laid out for ourselves.
+
+From Whence Do I Call Out, my down-tree instance, was tightly in control of herself. She was more tightly in control than \emph{anyone} else I have had ever met, never mind just among the Odists.
+
+I was sure that the True Name of yore had probably been yet more in control, and yet I had never met her. I had been no one. I \emph{was still} no one. I was that part of From Whence that needed out of the cage of control. I was the part of her that loathed the social interaction inherent in being a rabbi. I was the part of her that rankled when confronted with this desire to mask and thus appear a confident spiritual leader.
+
+I was that part of her set free.
+
+I was the part of her who could give up that life of leadership and sink down into the comfort of texts.
+
+I was the part of her that splashed about in that collection of neuroses that had been bundled up in Michelle Hadje, that collection of identities and desires that reached for ever more, the bits that had been left behind that had not been crushed to a fine powder by whatever forces within the Western Federation there were that had deemed us nobodies to have been transitively lost.
+
+``What Right Have I?''
+
+I squeaked and jumped at the sudden intrusion of words. ``Ah\ldots yes?''
+
+``You were chirping,'' my down-tree instance said to me, smiling. ``I was wondering if you had further thoughts, my dear.''
+
+I shook my head, then bowed to From Whence. ``My apologies. No, my thoughts had wandered.''
+
+``Do you think we have had enough of this topic, then?''
+
+I shrugged.
+
+``A verbal response would help me better move forward one way or another.''
+
+``Ah, sorry.'' I shook my head again. ``No, ah\ldots{} Yes. I am sorry, Rav From Whence, Rav Sorensen. I think we have had enough of the topic.''
+
+Both of them sighed, nodded, and reached their arms up above their heads in unison to stretch. I hid a secret smile at the synchronicity.
+
+``Fair enough,'' From Whence said, pushing her paw up through the front portion of her mane and ruffling out the already mussed white fur there. ``I could do with a little bit of silence, honestly. Or fresh air. Or something.''
+
+Erin nodded. ``Fresh air sounds good. We could start making our way up to the hilltop the long way around.''
+
+``Not the worst idea.''
+
+I felt stymied. We were \emph{here,} though. We were talking. We were working. We were pounding our fists against the divine and begging it to provide for us some sense of greater truth. We were pushing our way through reality at a constant pace and so learning --- learning or refinement or perfection or whatever it was that we were doing --- ought to proceed at precisely that pace, not stopped by walking up the hill.
+
+``What Right Have I?''
+
+I hid away any sullenness in my posture as I bowed to the two rabbis. Some small bit of masking did at times serve the purpose of merely letting me out of yet more interaction that I did not feel equipped to handle.
+
+``Very well,'' I said, and followed them out the door of this particular meeting room.
+
+The cool air of the night was a blessing. I had not realized just how warm the room had gotten, not until provided with contrast. We stepped out into a garden --- one of my favorites within the sim and a large part of why I preferred this particular meeting room.
+
+The cool air was a blessing, and the perpetually springtime scent of it a comfort. There was the sharp-sweet honeysuckle. There was the baked goods warmth of the day-closing dandelions. There was the floral chill of lilacs.
+
+The cool air was a blessing and the Jonah plant --- my most selfish of contributions to the sim --- was in full flush. When, at times, I was feeling particularly peaky, I would sit in the shade its leaves in the heat of the day, the shadows so deep as to not even be dappled, and then, knowing, by my weight on the bench beneath it, my presence, it would shortly wither away and I would be blasted by the full force of the sun, for even if it was not directly overhead, some trick of the glass on the buildings that formed the courtyard would ensure that this one location was always subject to those rays, and thus I would be confronted with the plight of Jonah --- poor, stupid Jonah --- who cared more about his comfort than the fate of a city so much larger than he.
+
+I was called away from standing still, snout pointed up in the air to take in the scents, that I might follow From Whence and Erin up the hill, this time and two or three times more. I do not know why I was surprised that I needed a break in context, nor why both of my interlocutors had recognized such before I did. Such things will never cease to surprise me, though, and I suppose one upside to this is that I will forever have reason to be thankful for.
+
+We wove our way up to the synagogue the long way around, never once entering a building, for there was a path, if you knew it, that let you go the whole way outdoors. You would step from this courtyard to that following some colonnaded walk or exposed breezeway, climbing stairs and ramps, walking through some ivy-shaded alley where one might touch the walls of the buildings to either side with both paws outstretched.
+
+The narrowest of these was the final path around the side of the synagogue itself, an entry to that alleyway that was hidden by some clever trick of the architecture and light. Here, one might even be tempted to turn sideways and edge, crablike, down the path, so close together were the buildings.
+
+And at last we stood outside the front entrance, the three of us simply breathing deep of the night air --- midnight not far off, now, and the sounds of bustle nearby from those preparing for the celebration. The exertion of the climb lingered with us, and to stop and stand still was a quiet comfort as the chill of the night began to fully set in.
+
+``Do you think\ldots{} ah, that is, shall I perhaps go get us some coffees? Some drinks? We can have a little bit of warmth, yes?''
+
+Both Rav Sorenson and Rav From Whence turned their smiles upon me from where they had been before pointed up to the stars.
+
+``That would be lovely, my dear,'' From Whence said.
+
+``Why not?'' Erin's smile grew all the brighter. ``Though a hot chocolate will do for me, I think.''
+
+I nodded, bowed, and forked.
+
+It was What Right Have I\#Coffee who stepped to Infinite Café, arriving on one of the designated transportation pads, one of those rectangles tiled in a gently glowing white where all collision was turned off, and from there stepped out into the comfortably cool air of the night, warmer than that of Beth Tikvah.
+
+This was notable in part because it was never night in Infinite Café. Or, rather, it was only night twice a year: New Year's Eve and Secession Day night --- eve and night by systime, which I suppose must be UTC or some similar standard --- and then only for the fireworks. When your entire world is a thin ribbon of land, a literal ring road surrounding a bright star, the meaning of `night' shifts.
+
+And so here they were, New Year's eve and it was well and truly night on this road that ran who knew how many kilometers long, a road lined on either side by so, so many cafés and coffee shops and delightful little stalls offering coffee and little treats. Above, no moon shone, but instead there were countless strings of fairy lights, strung with no discernible pattern, casting a warm glow on those below.
+
+It was well and truly night, and yet it was still busy. Crowds meandered under fairy lights and a dark sky that craved the diamond scars of fireworks etched across it. It begged for the blossoming lights that were promised by the evening.
+
+Half an hour away.
+
+The fairy lights drew a crazed pattern above her, etching dotted lines across the black of night. \#Coffee stood for some time, simply staring up to them, trying to draw constellations out of linear groupings of stars. There were more letters than there were animals, given so many straight lines, and so she spent some time trying to spell out words.
+
+Sweet scents still rode in her nostrils and clung to her fur. The cool of the night, just shy of chilly, still filled her body. The joy of the work contrasted still beautifully with the joy of the break and the re-grounding that followed. She was in love, at that moment, with the world, and it felt like the world was in love with her.
+
+There was time to feel this sensation. Time to tune down her hearing to lower the noise of the crowds to something a little more tolerable, and revel in the fact that other people exist, that this world was full of joy.
+
+Twenty minutes away.
+
+Coffee, though. That is why she was here. Warm drinks to stave off the slight chill of the hilltop at Beth Tikvah.
+
+She wandered down the path that was Infinite Café, eyes scanning the storefronts --- or perhaps store-backs, as many of them were --- until one caught her eye.
+
+The Bean Cycle advertised itself with a chaotic pile of bicycles bolted to the wall. It looked like ivy of some sort, or a sort of ooze that threatened to overtake the building itself. Bicycles, wheels, frames, gears and chains, all bolted to the wall or to each other, climbing up beside a door and then oozing up over the low roof.
+
+Why not?
+
+She stepped inside and immediately turned her hearing down further, shutting out the rattle-clatter of a smattering of cyclists riding stationary on sets of rollers before a scoreboard, the whine-howl of steam wands frothing milk, and the dull chatter of those who spoke over it. Halogen lights shone above, at once too bright and not bright enough.
+
+It was overstimulating, and yet all the more quaint and charming for it.
+
+Ordering the drinks --- a hot chocolate and two mochas with extra whipped cream --- went smoothly, and she even let herself be talked into three of ``the best croissants in this sim'', because why not. She was riding along joy, now, like a train on rails, letting it carry her forward.
+
+This --- not the coffee shop, not the noise, but her night, the debate and the walk, existing in the world --- was her joy. It was her calling in life to wrap herself up in the stories of old and then view the world through them like a kaleidoscope that she might then hold up a mirror to it through the lens of interpretation.
+
+Her drinks and croissants were set into a cardboard drink caddy, and at last she was free to step back out into the night air, away from the noise of the bikes and steam wands and halogen lights.
+
+Fifteen minutes away.
+
+Fifteen minutes away and, of a sudden, the crowd was reduced. Many of those who had once stood before her, this instance of me, in knots and gaggles of friends were simply not there. Not all; nor, perhaps, even most. Just many sudden absences.
+
+There was a shout that fell to a murmur, and which then rose to a quiet roar, a wash of sound that led What Right Have I\#Coffee to set her tray of cups and treats on the ground beside her and cover her ears in a rush as she stood outside of a coffee shop. She hurried to turn down her hearing the down yet further and stifled a yelp, a squeak, a jerk of the head.
+
+The words that made it through the pillowy softness of a sense running at 10\% were shouts and cries of alarm. They were names hollered out, presumably those of people no longer present. They were wide-eyed growls begging to know what the fuck had just happened.
+
+Fourteen minutes away, and What Right Have I\#Coffee realized she could not take it all in. Not all of this. Not here. Tray abandoned, she quit to merge back down.
+
+And yet I was dealing with my own worries, then, for at fifteen minutes until midnight, a din arose at the top of the hill, some fifty meters away, and it was as we were making our way toward the noise when the merge from \#Coffee landed on my mind with a startling sense of urgency.
+
+I incorporated the memories without a second thought, and then bolted towards the top of the hill, leaving Ravs From Whence and Sorenson calling after me in my wake.
+
+The scene at the yard atop the hill was much the same as that at Infinite Café: names were called out. Disbelief and shock were expressed. Voices were tinged here with anger, there with fear.
+
+I stood at the edge of the yard and gaped, where I was soon joined by the other two.
+
+I remember little else from that night. Or I remember it, but through a dream-fog of panic.
+
+I remember how Rav From Whence sprung immediately into action --- or, rather, how she was already a whirlwind of motion and emotion, there in the thick of it all, and how the instance beside me merged down as soon as she saw what was happening, and I remember how Rav Sorenson dashed into help. The both of them had soon forked several times over and were corralling the crowd into knots of smaller groups that they might speak more easily with them, working on the level of family, perhaps, or friend-group.
+
+I remember how I stood once more, just as What Right Have I\#Coffee had, gawking at the pandemonium
+
+I remember the first wail --- the first recognition of loss and the first wail of despair and pain that rang out into the night --- and the bright arc of a firework soaring into the sky, bursting, and then the sudden disappearance as the show was canceled.
+
+I remember hearing the wail, seeing the sparks and then sudden dark, and then stepping to my room to hide under my desk, letting flow tears of confusion, frustration, and terror.

kaddish/content/prologue.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,35 @@
+I am returning to write this prologue having already written the work from start to finish. I have lived these days. I have lived this year. I lived, and now I have won for myself another day in this life.
+
+I am returning after having written the work, having gone back and read it, and I see an insufferable person. I see someone I would not like to be around very much --- and I know this to be the case because I do not often like spending undirected time with my own up trees --- and I cringe.
+
+The thing about this feeling, though, is that it is borne out of improvement. I look back at this last year and do not like the person who I was at the start of it as much as I do the me of today, and so that comes with the corollary: I like the me of today more than the person who began this year.
+
+This is the kernel of joy within that pain. This is the sweet to go along with the bitter. This is that careful balance that has become a core to so many of our tricentenarian lives. When we look back at who we were and cringe, that is the us of today looking back and recognizing the shortcomings we had which we no longer have. We have changed and grown as people: affirming. We might come up with all sorts of quippy advice, promising ourselves that we will not kill the part of ourselves that is cringe but instead the part that cringes, and yet overapply this sentiment to all aspects of ourselves.
+
+I cringe at who I was not out of some irony-poisoned sense of superiority, but out of a recognition that I \emph{like} who I am now.
+
+Is that a spoiler? Am I spoiling for you, O imagined reader, one of the core conceits behind this work? It is woman against self, and the woman, she who has been a hero since birth, prevails, as all heroes must?
+
+Perhaps.
+
+I do not feel like a hero, no matter my words. I feel like a tired, old woman who lived through the end of the world and came away from the experience wishing she were other than what she is.
+
+And now, here I am: other than I was.
+
+I have chosen for the epigraph to this memoir a quote by Eliot Weinberger that I think stands more poignantly than some silly bit of mistranslated Heraclitus, because Weinberger speaks \emph{specifically} to the act of reading --- or, more specifically, translating --- a poem. It is not a statement on personal growth. It is a statement on active engagement and the ways in which engaging changes us.
+
+There is, curiously, too much placidity in Heraclitus' philosophy in this particular context.
+
+This world is not static.
+
+I am not static.
+
+Change is not happening \emph{to} me.
+
+I am an actor in this world, and I have within me agency, and I have within my grasp my own destiny. Though my forward momentum may be slow and meticulous, I have time. I have lived 317 years and I will continue to aim for ever greater change over the next 317, not simply allow change to wash over me, for more precious is one hour working toward positive change in this world than all the life of the world to come; and should my life once more cease, and this time for good, then so be it: more precious is one hour of the tranquility of the world to come than all the life of this world.
+
+\vspace{2ex}
+
+\noindent --- What Right Have I of the Ode clade\\
+\phantom{---} 17 Sh'vat 6163 / 10 February 2403 / systime 279+41\\
+\phantom{---} \emph{Yom HaShichzur}

kaddish/fromzk.fish

@@ -0,0 +1,14 @@
+for i in (fd '0.*' ~/sparkleup/zk/writing/post-self/motes/)
+     set o (echo $i | sed -e 's/.\+motes\///')
+     set d (echo $o | sed -e 's/[0-9b]\+.md//')
+     set t (echo $o | sed -e 's/\.md/.tex/')
+     echo "$o $d"
+     if not test -d src/$d
+         mkdir -p src/$d
+     end
+     if not test -d content/$d
+         mkdir -p content/$d
+     end
+     cp $i src/$o
+     pandoc -f markdown -t latex src/$o --wrap=none --top-level-division=chapter | sed -e 's/\\chapter/\\chapter*/' | sed -e 's/---/—/g' > content/$t; \
+ end

kaddish/includes/_draft.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,5 @@
+%%% Watermark for draft
+\usepackage{draftwatermark}
+\def\watermarkloaded{1}
+\SetWatermarkLightness{0.95}
+\SetWatermarkText{Patrons}

kaddish/includes/_frame.tex

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

kaddish/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}

kaddish/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=1in,
+  includeheadfoot,
+  twoside,
+  showcrop
+]{geometry}
+\ifdefined\SetWatermarkHorCenter
+  \SetWatermarkHorCenter{3in}
+  \SetWatermarkVerCenter{4.5in}
+\fi

kaddish/includes/copyright.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,82 @@
+\null
+\pagestyle{empty}
+\vfill
+\singlespacing
+{\small\parindent0pt\parskip5pt
+\noindent Copyright \copyright\ 2025, Madison Rye Progress. This work 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
+
+ISBN: \ISBN
+
+\textit{Kaddish}
+
+Cover \copyright\ 2025, \Illustrator.
+
+\Edition\ Edition, \Year. All rights reserved.
+
+This book uses the fonts Gentium Book Basic, {\DisplayFont Gotu} and {\TitleFont Linux Biolinum O} and was typeset with {\usefont{OT1}{cmr}{m}{n}\XeLaTeX}.
+
+%Printed in the United States of America\\
+%\EditionsList
+}%\parindent0pt
+
+\clearpage
+\singlespacing
+\thispagestyle{empty}
+\begin{center}
+    \noindent {\Large\DisplayFont Post-Self books}
+    \TitleFamily
+
+    \vspace{2em}
+
+    {\large The Post-Self Cycle}\\
+    {\normalfont\small by Madison Rye Progress (as Madison Scott-Clary)}
+
+    \vspace{1ex}
+     
+    I. \emph{Qoheleth}
+
+    II. \emph{Toledot}
+
+    III. \emph{Nevi'im}
+
+    IV. \emph{Mitzvot}
+
+    \vspace{2ex}
+     
+    \emph{\large Clade — A Post-Self Anthology}\\
+    {\normalfont\small Various authors}
+     
+    \vspace{2ex}
+
+    \emph{\large Unintended Tendencies}\\
+    {\normalfont\small by JL Conway}
+     
+    \vspace{2ex}
+    
+    \emph{\large Marsh}\\
+    {\normalfont\small by Madison Rye Progress \emph{et al.}}
+
+    \vspace{2ex}
+     
+    \emph{\large Motes Played}\\
+    {\normalfont\small by Madison Rye Progress \& Samantha Yule Fireheart}
+
+    \vspace{2ex}
+     
+    \emph{\large Ask. — An Odist Q\&A}\\
+    {\normalfont\small Various authors}
+
+    \vspace{2ex}
+     
+    \emph{\large Idumea}\\
+    {\normalfont\small Madison Rye Progress \emph{et al.}}
+
+    \vspace{2ex}
+
+    \emph{\large Kaddish}\\
+    {\normalfont\small Madison Rye Progress}
+
+    \vspace{3ex}
+
+    Learn more at \emph{post-self.ink}
+\end{center}

kaddish/includes/draft.tex

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

kaddish/includes/font.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,12 @@
+%%% Font
+% Uncomment and modify to your font specs
+
+\usepackage{fontspec}
+\setmainfont{Gentium Book Plus}
+\newfontface\HebFont{FreeSerif}
+\newfontface\FeedFont{Alegreya}
+\newfontfamily\TitleFamily{Linux Biolinum O}
+\newfontface\TitleFont{Linux Biolinum O}
+\newfontfamily\DisplayFamily{Gotu}%{Linux Biolinum O}%{NovaMono for Powerline}
+\newfontface\DisplayFont{Gotu}%{Linux Biolinum O}%{NovaMono for Powerline}
+ \newfontface\CK{Noto Serif CJK JP}

kaddish/includes/frame.tex

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

kaddish/includes/geometry.tex

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

kaddish/includes/hyphenation.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,7 @@
+\hyphenation{
+% \AuthorFirst
+% \AuthorLast
+% \Title
+% \Subtitle
+Beholden
+}

kaddish/includes/packages.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,24 @@
+%%% 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{xltxtra}
+\usepackage{longtable}
+\usepackage{comment}
+\usepackage{pdfpages}
+\usepackage{paracol}
+\usepackage{marginnote}

kaddish/includes/pagelayout.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,44 @@
+%%% Headers and page styles
+\usepackage[pagestyles]{titlesec}
+\usepackage{fancyhdr}
+\setlength{\headheight}{15.2pt}
+
+% ourbook style with fancy headers and chapter headings
+\fancypagestyle{ourbook}{
+  % headers
+  \fancyhf{}
+  \fancyhf[FRO,FLE]{\TitleFont{\thepage}}
+  % \fancyhf[FRE,FLO]{\emph{Patreon Supporter Edition}}
+  \fancyhf[HLE]{\TitleFont{\leftmark}}
+  \fancyhf[HRO]{\TitleFont{Madison Rye Progress}}
+  \renewcommand{\headrulewidth}{0pt}
+  \renewcommand{\printchaptername}{}
+  \renewcommand{\chapternamenum}{}
+  \renewcommand{\printchapternum}{}
+  \renewcommand{\printchaptertitle}[1]{%
+  \linespread{1}\TitleFont\centering\huge ##1}
+  \renewcommand{\partnamefont}{\DisplayFont\huge}
+  \renewcommand{\partnumfont}{\DisplayFont\huge}
+  \renewcommand{\parttitlefont}{\DisplayFont\Huge}
+  \setlength{\parskip}{0pt}
+}
+
+% plain style with only page num
+\fancypagestyle{plain}{
+  \fancyhf{}
+  \renewcommand{\headrulewidth}{0pt}
+  \renewcommand{\footrulewidth}{0pt}
+  \fancyhf[FRO,FLE]{\TitleFont{\thepage}}
+  \renewcommand{\printchaptertitle}[1]{%
+  \TitleFont\huge ##1}
+}
+
+% single space after periods
+\frenchspacing
+
+% Attempt justification at all costs
+\sloppy
+
+% Widows and orphans
+\widowpenalty=9000
+\clubpenalty=9000

kaddish/includes/pretitle.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,12 @@
+\thispagestyle{empty}
+\null
+\vfill
+\begin{flushright}
+  \DisplayFont Qoheleth
+
+  \vspace{1ex}
+
+  {\footnotesize and other stories}
+\end{flushright}
+\vfill
+\cleardoublepage

kaddish/includes/secdiv.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,11 @@
+%%% Section divider
+% don't forget to \noindent the line after!
+% \renewcommand\rule[2]{$\star$}
+% \newcommand\secdiv{
+%   \begin{center}
+%     \rule{}{}
+%   \end{center}
+% }
+\newcommand\secdiv{
+  \begin{center}\DisplayFont ×\end{center}
+}

kaddish/includes/title.tex

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

kaddish/includes/toc.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,15 @@
+%%% ToC munging
+% Remove ToC header
+\renewcommand{\contentsname}{}
+\renewcommand*{\cftpartfont}{\DisplayFont\large}
+\renewcommand*{\cftpartpagefont}{\TitleFont\large}
+\renewcommand*{\cftchapterfont}{\TitleFont}
+\renewcommand*{\cftchapterpagefont}{\TitleFont}
+\renewcommand*{\cftchapterafterpnum}{}
+\renewcommand{\cftdot}{\small{$\cdot$}}
+\renewcommand{\cftchapterdotsep}{3}
+\renewcommand{\cftsectiondotsep}{10000}
+% start toc at top of page
+\renewcommand*\tocheadstart{}{}
+\hypersetup{final}
+%\setcounter{tocdepth}{-1}

kaddish/includes/variables.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,20 @@
+\def\Title{Kaddish}
+\def\Subtitle{}
+\def\FullTitle{\Title}
+\def\AuthorFirst{Madison}
+\def\AuthorLast{Progress}
+\def\AuthorFull{Madison Rye Progress}
+\def\Illustrator{ILLUSTRATOR NAME}
+
+\def\Edition{First}
+\def\EditionsList{10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1}
+\def\Year{2024}
+
+\def\ISBN{978-1-948743-47-1}
+
+\def\Publisher{PUBLISHER}
+\def\PublisherEmail{publisher@example.com}
+\def\PublisherURL{example.com}
+\def\PublisherLocation{City, STATE}
+
+\newcommand\Partner{\rule[-1pt]{4em}{1.9ex}}

marsh/book.tex

@@ -49,7 +49,7 @@
 
     {\Large\DisplayFont Madison Rye Progress}
 
-    %With contributions from Samantha Yule Fireheart, Andréa C. Mason, Caela Argent, J.S. Hawthorne, Krzysztof ``Tomash'' Drewniak
+    %With contributions from Samantha Yule Fireheart, Andréa C Mason, Caela Argent, J.S. Hawthorne, Krzysztof ``Tomash'' Drewniak
   \end{flushright}
 
   \newpage
@@ -218,8 +218,8 @@
 
   \cleartoverso
   \thispagestyle{empty}
-  \story{A Well-Trained Eye}{Andréa C. Mason}
-  \markboth{A Well-Trained Eye}{Andréa C. Mason}
+  \story{A Well-Trained Eye}{Andréa C Mason}
+  \markboth{A Well-Trained Eye}{Andréa C Mason}
   \chapter*{Lucia Marchetti — 2401}
   \input{stories/a-well-trained-eye}
   
@@ -240,7 +240,7 @@
   \cleartoverso
   \thispagestyle{empty}
   \story{Journal of Diago Pereira}{Nat Mcardle-Mott-Merrifield and Sarah Bloden}
-  %\markboth{Journal of Diago Pereira}{Nat Mcardle-Mott-Merrifield and Sarah Bloden}
+  \markboth{Journal of Diago Pereira}{Nat Mcardle-Mott-Merrifield / Sarah Bloden}
   \chapter*{Henrique Pereira — 2400–2401}
   \input{stories/journal}
 
@@ -253,9 +253,9 @@
 
   \cleartoverso
   \thispagestyle{empty}
-  \story{Millwright}{Andréa C. Mason}
-  \markboth{Millwright}{Andréa C. Mason}
-  \chapter*{Andréa C. Mason\#Millwright — 2403}
+  \story{Millwright}{Andréa C Mason}
+  \markboth{Millwright}{Andréa C Mason}
+  \chapter*{Andréa C Mason\#Millwright — 2403}
   \input{stories/millwright}
 
   \cleartoverso

marsh/content/001.tex

@@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ I laughed and bumped my shoulder against Hanne's. ``A sales pitch?''
 
 ``You're a nerd. You realize that, right?''
 
-``Tell me why I should be a nerd in the year 275. Next year we can decide on systime 276.``
+``Tell me why I should be a nerd in the year 275. Next year we can decide on systime 276.''
 
 I scuffed my heel against the pavement of the street. New Year's Eve, and everyone was still inside. Bars: full. Restaurants: packed. There were a few scattered couples or groups around, but they were all walking with purpose. Champagne called. Canapes. Crudités.
 

marsh/content/002.tex

@@ -1,4 +1,4 @@
-Champagne tinted evenings faded, as they do, into brandy-colored nights. Amber nights and fireplaces for the hell of it, me and Hanne settling in for a little bit of warmth for that last hour, not quite decadence and a ways off from opulence, but still a plush couch and a fire and snifters slightly too full of liquor.
+Champagne tinted evenings faded, as they do, into brandy-colored nights. Amber nights and fireplaces for the hell of it, me and Hanne settling in for a little bit of warmth for that last hour, not quite decadence and a ways off from opulence, but still a plush couch and a fire and snifters slightly too full of liquor. We tucked ourselves in under a whole-house cone of silence, one tuned to block incoming sensorium messages so that our New Year's Eve was ours alone.
 
 We shared our warmth, sitting side by side on the couch, and we continued to talk, talking of the year past, of years past beyond that, and of however many we decided were ahead. A hundred years? Two hundred? Only five? I made an impassioned argument for five more years of life, then laughed, changed my mind, and said I'd never die. Hanne said she'd live for precisely two hundred, give up, and disappear from Lagrange. She'd fork at a century and never speak to that version of her again, and should that instance decide to live on past two centuries, so be it, but she'd decided her expiration.
 
@@ -231,7 +231,7 @@ I frowned, pinged Hanne.
 
 ``What?'' she said, her frown deepening.
 
-``Hold on, one more sec.'' I nodded to my new fork, who quit; I declined the merge. This would just have to be a year where I kept the memories. Something was wrong. I could work it out with my up-trees later.
+``Hold on, one more sec.'' I nodded to my new fork, who quit; I declined the merge. This would just have to be a year where I kept the memories. I wanted to keep the feeling of being unable to merge down, to know it viscerally. Something was wrong. I could work it out with my up-trees later.
 
 00:02.
 

marsh/content/004.tex

@@ -498,7 +498,7 @@ Dry Grass tilted her head thoughtfully. ``None of my forks have reported any suc
 
 She nodded. ``Several of us are working on that, yes, and from across the stanzas.''
 
-One of the gathered, From Whence Do I Call Out, began to pray. ``\emph{Barukh atah Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha'olam, dayan ha-emet.}''
+One of the gathered, From Whence Do I Call Out, began to pray. ``\emph{Barukh atah Adonai Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam, dayan ha'emet.}''
 
 Dry Grass lowered her head as several of the other Odists joined. After a moment, she forked and gathered the Marshans around her, setting up a cone of silence above us.
 

marsh/content/011.tex

@@ -129,5 +129,3 @@ Dry Grass frowned. ``Are you sure that that is wise? Does the entirety of Lagran
 ``So,'' I said after the conversation drifted into silence. ``What do we do now?''
 
 ``Mourn,'' Dry Grass said. ``Work and mourn.''
-
-\begin{center}\rule{0.5\linewidth}{0.5pt}\end{center}

marsh/content/a-well-trained-eye.tex

@@ -1,279 +0,0 @@
-The rain against old glass panes and the sways and bumps of the car on the rails ready the air for conjurations. Lucy sits on the bench 6th from the back, on the right side, a sketchbook open across her knees. Today she's trying charcoal. Feels right with what happened a week ago.
-
-This lonely train through the valley and the mountain is her chapel and now her hermitage in the wake of the bombing. There are plenty of churches and other religious retreats across the System if she wanted, but none of them have ever felt a fit for this work. She thought about skipping this week, and told herself if the train wasn't running, she'd pick up again later, but even with no passengers save her, the engine pulls its empty tail along the countryside. So, as she has done every week for the past 250 years, she has gone to her locker in the station, pulled out a fresh sketchbook, and boarded.
-
-Lucy conjures in her memory their faces.
-
-She can only recall 63 of the 68. It is true that the System means she cannot forget anything now, but it merely preserves in amber what the memory held at the moment of upload. It cannot restore the faces she lost to time. Even a number of the faces she recalls are not complete memories. Those she has filled in over decades, extrapolating or iterating on them until they are whole enough for her to feel it completes them. Over 260 years, her hands have become capable of incredible art, both through endless repetition and boundless study. When she is not here in her railcar-sized confession booth, she enjoys a life as an artist, known for bittersweet paintings and sculptures, happy to teach and happier to learn, a lover of life and a bringer of joy.
-
-Of the five lost, two faces she cannot recall because they were unexpected complications on a job. One face was sent to kill her, but wasn't good enough. One face jumped her in an alley to rob her, or perhaps worse, but couldn't have picked a worse target. She doesn't recall her first kill's face, because there was a bag over his head and a gun loaded with both bullets and an irreversible choice was pushed into her hand.
-
-The 69th face is the most vivid to her, but Lucy has never felt the need to draw her. After all, she let that last one go, and every morning after she wakes, Lucia Marchetti hopes that poor girl listened to her and got far far away. She hopes that woman lived a full life and that the family never caught up.
-
-The clack-clack of the wheels on the track sets a rhythm for her vigil, her penance. The weather in the sim varies based on algorithms and set patterns both, stable enough to make maintenance easy, unpredictable enough to mimic weather phys-side. Today the rain is quite heavy. She welcomes it. The inside is dry, but the wood of the train car has a slight moist smell, a beautiful attention to detail. The lights in the car flicker a little more than usual, the train is a bit slower than usual but the ride is if anything less smooth. She likes the rougher rides, because it adds a challenge to her work, one she is well accustomed to after centuries but nonetheless welcomes. The rain fills in the silence where passengers would chat and shuffle and cough and rustle newspapers and make all those sounds living people make. She wonders how many of the usual riders died in the bomb, and how many are just afraid to go out, unsure, mourning, or just needing time alone.
-
-Some art critics and fans throughout the System have pointed out that the left eyes in many of her portraits have fantastical details, often drawn as flowers, or the root of vines, or sunsets woven into faces, or in her sculptures become caves, grottos, tidal pools, library alcoves, hidden urban alleys. Many speculate on the symbolism of that, and her favorite theory is the one that she lost an eye to cancer, and her obsession with art and color is due to the way cancer distorted her vision, and that her art was a reclamation of what it had taken from her, a final spite to the disease that forced her to upload. Even though it was wrong it was very romantic, and even now she did very little to fight it, and on occasion coyly encouraged it.
-
-A bullet through the left eye had been her professional calling card. Left hand on the top of the head, barrel of the silencer to the eyelid. She had taken so much from the world through left eyes, and she put back as much life and beauty through them now as she could. It would never be enough. More than a few of the faces she could only conjure with the bloody hole in a lifeless head, but she has never rendered it in sketches. She recreates and restores them as they were before, using decades of study to fill in what she destroyed. Even as styles and methods and tools change in her hands, she gives the dead that. Owes them that. The only real Liberty she takes is with the hair above the faces, refusing to give hair any semblance of being pushed or held down by anything.
-
-The piece of charcoal snaps in her hand, and she realizes there are tears staining the current sketch. She wipes her eyes, takes another piece of charcoal from her satchel.
-
-The bomb dwells on her mind. The Century Bomb, detonated at midnight, the start of the 25th century. 2400-01-01. 276+1 systime. In a digital world so removed from death, suddenly a toll on an incomprehensible level. Mechanically, it was a contraproprioceptive virus, launched at an astounding scale, wiping 1\% of the System's current instance total by interrupting their code irreversibly. Functionally, it was a bomb that killed billions and scared shitless a trillion more. She wonders why they did it. She doesn't want to know, but she wonders. She wonders if it was just a job. She wonders if it wasn't. She wonders if they can remember all the faces of the people they killed. She wonders if they died in the bomb themselves. She hopes they did. She snaps another piece of charcoal, but if there were tears, they burned off on the heat in her face. It takes several breaths to unclench her fist, and she grabs another piece of charcoal.
-
-This is the longest stretch of the track. It's between the third and fourth stops, and it's where she starts sketching every time. Some weeks, depending on her mood or free time, she waits for the train to finish looping through the five stops and the station before picking up in her usual place. This time she doesn't wait. The calm she needs comes as soon as the engine lurches into motion from the station, and she lets the sounds and motions balm her weary heart.
-
-Charcoal means no color, but it lets her play with shading techniques. The more recent the face, the more realistic it becomes on the page, whereas older faces come out impressionistic, sketchier, or strikingly simple. Once she did them in chronological order. Then by age, alphabetical by first name, then last, then by height or by estimated weight, by location, by time it took to complete that dirty work, until now she's run out of categories and just lets them queue their own order, double checking periodically who is left and who isn't.
-
-She feels a low impulse to include some of the regular passengers who are missing today, but cannot bring herself to break 250 years of rite and ritual. She decides tomorrow she will come back with separate sketchbooks or maybe some other medium, sit in a different place on the train, and sketch as many of the regulars as she can remember. Those she will not keep hidden away, and those she will let her sys-side self take care of.
-
-Most people would send a separate fork for this, she figures. She always leaves a fork at her home sim, and when she gets back to the studio that fork will merge down to her. It is important to her that this continuous (as much as one can be here) version of herself be the penitent one. She thinks other people would understand that, it's not something that really needs explaining, but she has never told anyone directly what she does, and those who know about her train rides know better than to ask.
-
-She wonders how many of them survived, and how many of them died or quit. She wonders how many will quit or crash from the grief. She chides herself for getting distracted. She sketches.
-
-She long ago learned the art of faking motions. She trained herself to glance up and stare at random points in the room, usually where other passengers are, to give the illusion she is not doing this from memory. It is a performance for the comfort of others, and the comfortable ask less questions. She almost always got left alone anyway. She wonders how she must look from the outside. Short, black hair, in a layered bob that tapers into her neck, pale skin, wispy and thin. Her outfit for the train is always the same, a plain, thin white blouse with short sleeves and dark blue buttons down the middle, a pair of dark blue slacks with a very high waist, a tasteful pair of flats, tented teal triangles for earrings. The train is based on its early middle twentieth century ancestors, and she commits fully to the part as well. She never asks anyone if she pulls it off, or asks for a picture.
-
-It takes her a while to notice there is someone else in the railcar with her.
-
-One of those upward glancing motions registers some bright color on her left, but it takes four more motions before it actually clicks that it's an arm in a jacket. She stops mid-sketch and turns to the other passenger.
-
-Across the aisle from her seat is a bench against the left wall of the train, and despite years of riding she cannot say for sure if the bench was always present or a new addition. Other than that it does not stand out, as all the upholstery, cushions, wood, metal, and design choices fit perfectly with the rest of the compartment. It might have been there the whole time. It might have appeared there seconds ago. It alarms her how little her memory has charted the left side of the aisle.
-
-The other passenger is a woman who is also a skunk. She is tall, broad-shouldered, portly, covered in earthy green fur, with a mess of curly hair that is swept to the side and bleached blond. She wears an orange canvas bomber jacket, a beat up white tank top, grayish cargo pants, and heavy boots. Her arms are spread out on the back of the bench. One of her legs is crossed over the other, bouncing on it. She is grinning. Something about the fur pattern near the skunk's left eye unsettles Lucy, but it is obscured by the dark round sunglasses the skunk is wearing. How the skunk's tail seems to be at an impossible angle to her body while sitting down Lucy chalks up to the benefits of the System.
-
-The skunk's grin widens when her presence is acknowledged. Lucy looks at her but lets the other woman make the first move. The skunk gladly obliges. ``You know, it took me longer than I'd like to admit to realize you haven't been drawing other passengers.''
-
-Lucy chews her tongue before responding, turning back to her work but not letting the stranger from her sight. ``Who's to say I wasn't before?''
-
-The skunk shrugs. ``It's possible, but I've seen you here every week for decades. It didn't click until about 6 years ago that the styles change but the faces don't.''
-
-A regular, then. There are other cars, and Lucia only rides the train once a week. So many different bodies and species exist within the System, and with the weird prevalence of skunks among that, not recalling this one's face didn't feel too strange. Old instincts warn her that her visitor could be banking on that, but she dismisses it with a stroke on the page.
-
-Lucy sighs. ``Well noticed. What else have you observed?''
-
-The skunk tilts her head and chews her tongue a little, tapping a claw. ``More a hunch than an observation, but you don't draw the living.''
-
-``Correct again. Not here, anyway. Elsewhere I do not restrain myself so.''
-
-The skunk gives a bobbing nod. ``People you lost?''
-
-Lucia speaks plainly. ``People I killed.''
-
-The test is laid. How will the examinee respond? Fear? Nervous laughter? Anger?
-
-The skunk raises an eyebrow. ``Appearances can be deceiving, but you don't strike me as a soldier.''
-
-``Metaphorically, maybe, but never literally.''
-
-The skunk's claws tighten into the wood of the bench at either end of her arms. ``Not a cop, I hope?''
-
-Now there's a measure of character. Lucia genuinely laughs, and the skunk's grips relax. There's that bobbing nod again, and the mephit says, ``So, ah, contract work.''
-
-Lucy cannot decide if the animal's cavalier nature is charming or cause for alarm. Her heart wants to believe the former. A gut trained on a former life tells her the latter. Both are anxious to see how this plays out. ``I would call it familial obligations, but they did pay me for it, and friends of the family would throw me work now and again as well.'' She pauses. ``You know how family can be.''
-
-The skunk gives a sad smirk. ``Half of mine disowned me for being queer. Don't think it's quite the same but I can sympathize, at least.''
-
-Lucy stops sketching for a second, and makes eye contact with the skunk, or as best she can through the other's sunglasses. Even without the eyes, there's a topography of emotion in the snout and cheeks and brow. That pattern of fur around her left eye, it's rough. Aesthetically it interrupts the face. An interesting choice. Panic surges just a little again.
-
-Lucia blinks and shakes her head, turning back to her sketch. ``Well, good thing we both got out.''
-
-The skunk looks out the window behind her. ``And yet the past never stops trailing behind us here. It's like this train, never moving forward, on an endless loop that carries us in circles. Even if we step off at a stop, it will be back around to pick us up again.''
-
-Lucy sees no reason to add anything.
-
-The skunk turns back towards her. ``These pieces you do fascinate me. They all lack your signature.''
-
-``What need to autograph them? They are for me and the dead. Other than the prying eyes of those like you who see my process, they are never shared.''
-
-``That is not the signature I mean.''
-
-She tenses. ``Ah, a stylistic one, then. Do you mean to say I am an artist beyond these sketches? Who do you think I might be?''
-
-``I know exactly who you are.''
-
-Everything goes quiet and the light dims. Somewhere in the conversation Lucy missed the whistle for the tunnel, and as the trains slips into the darkness the driving rain no longer fills silence. Even the wheel-clacks sound quieter. The bulbs along either side of the car have dimmed, and the one on the skunk's right has gone out completely. The skunk has taken off her sunglasses, and is wiping the lenses in the cotton of her tank top.
-
-It is not a pattern in her fur, Lucia realizes. It is a scar. A scar that starts north of the brow, runs most of the way down her cheek, and in the middle, crosses her eye. The left eye itself is clouded over, with only a hint of the pupil beneath. The other eye is a striking hazel, untouched.
-
-A million possibilities run through Lucia's head. This is someone here to blackmail her. The family finally sent an assassin. Somehow one of her targets survived and has found her for revenge. The System isn't real, and this is Purgatory, or worse, Hell, luring her into a false sense of security to strengthen her damnation. All of these could be true at once. She does not know. She finds she cannot quit, or leave the sim, or even move, paralyzed in pure fear, an emotion she has not felt in centuries.
-
-Meanwhile, the skunk is saying, ``You are Lucia Marchetti, renowned artist and sculptor. One of the most distinct in the System, in fact, and if I'm not mistaken, the unintentional pioneer of three major art movements of the last two centuries. Most intriguing is your lasting fixation on the left eye, present on almost every one of your pieces with a living thing in it. There's a lot of theories, but no one really knows why you do it. Except I think I do.''
-
-Lucy resigns herself. 260 years was a good run. More than any of her targets got sometimes by a factor of ten. She should have trusted her gut and bailed. She should have run. She shouldn't have said so much. But she did, and she tries to make peace with having to face the music. It's not really working, but she still cannot bring herself to flee. They say that no one can force you to stay in a sim, that it is impossible to truly hold anyone anywhere in the System against their will, but none of them ever account for the pressure one can exert on oneself. So, if this is the end, she decides, even if she cannot accept it, she will not fight it. ``You're here to kill me, aren't you?''
-
-The skunk laughs. ``Kill you? Why would I want to kill you?'' She holds her sunglasses up towards one of the light fixtures, checking the lens for smudges. ``You might be the only person on the System who understands me.''
-
-Lucia has the brief vivid image in her mind of an engraved lighter and a carousel tearing itself apart. The skunk across from her must be some sort of fanatic, perhaps another professional killer, or worse, unprofessional. Someone unmoored from reality, perhaps. Madness is more prevalent in the System than anyone admits. Lucy decides she would have preferred if this stranger was here to kill her, then chides herself for this self-destructiveness.
-
-Still the skunk speaks, and taps next to her damaged eye. ``For most of my life phys-side, I would now and again come down with migraines that always started behind my eye. Most of them were mild, but some of them would put me down for a whole day. Once or twice I even had visual aberrations, and I couldn't even see out of it. It'd be like static, visual white noise. For some reason, after I forked off my root instance, I started having the migraines again sys-side. The pressure is there, and the hurt is sometimes there, but now I hallucinate. Vividly, and only through that eye. My right eye is locked on reality, and the left eye ranges from minor distortions to things that even our more adventurous chemical days never came close to. I've never met anyone else that gets migraines here like mine. But then, I see your work, and I finally think for a second that maybe I'm not alone.''
-
-``I'm not totally convinced you are not here to kill me.''
-
-The mephit shakes her head. ``I swear I'm not. I mean, you've been here---the System, I should say---for a long time?''
-
-``Centuries.''
-
-``When did you upload?''
-
-``Why should I tell you?''
-
-``So I can prove I'm not sent by your `family'. Just want to know the year.''
-
-Lucia mulls it over before saying it. ``2140.''
-
-``Which was 31 years before my root instance was even born.''
-
-``Doesn't mean that you aren't---''
-
-``You have to believe me! You have to, and you have to experience something like I do. It has to be the reason!'' The skunk's face is a patchwork of frustration and desperate need.
-
-``I never in my life before this place or after had a single headache.''
-
-The stranger is on the verge of tears. ``Then why?''
-
-``It's where I put the bullets.''
-
-The skunk's eyes go wide, and the rain slams against the rail car as the train leaves the tunnel again.
-
-For the first time in all her years of penance, Lucia wishes she could stop drawing these faces, and instead in this moment sketch the creature across from her. The surprise in the mephit's features decays, like a flashbulb in a camera after it's gone off in those ancient movies the Don loved to watch. Lucy wants to capture this moment as hope withers and understanding winds vines slowly into the visage of the woman. She can see her piece together what that means, why these faces must never bear that mark, a million questions banished to the aether with one simple, ugly, answer. It is Lucia's opinion that art is better left unexplained, and this is why. If it weren't for the storm outside she would have heard the poor thing's heart break. There is a biting of a lip, there are tears, there is a bobbing nod of understanding, and a single, deep sob. If she could raise a hand, a brush, a chisel, these minutes would turn into her finest work, she would capture the death of a hero as seen through a mirror. She mourns it as the emotions pass, as the traces of them evaporate off the skunk's muzzle like morning mist in the sun. To capture what she saw in the moment would be a blasphemous vanity. She tears herself away from staring, and continues her sketches.
-
-It is a while before either can speak. The skunk speaks first. ``I think knowing that, somehow, makes your art\ldots more beautiful to me?''
-
-Lucy snorts. ``That's unfortunate.''
-
-``Do you regret it?''
-
-She rolls her eyes at this. ``No, I have sat on this train every week for 250 years drawing the dead because I have nothing better to do. What a stupid question.''
-
-``Did you upload because you got tired of killing?''
-
-``I uploaded because I was tired of being a man.'' She looks up to see that the skunk has put back on her sunglasses, but they cannot hide her surprise again. Lucia sets down the notebook and the charcoal on the seat next to herself. ``The family gave me an address and a man's name. They did not tell me what he had done, usually they did not, but they spoke with such vitriol I assumed his trespasses were high. The family back then overlooked my dalliances with other men, as men were easy to pay off, and I suspect I was not the only one in the family `wandering from the path' in that way. Something about the venom in the request made me wonder if someone in the family had been spurned, and I was cleaning up loose ends. No matter. I had given up long ago on caring about my targets. A job is a job, and the family always found me work.
-
-``I broke into the apartment, and in the dim light of the living room was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She was like polished stone, you could tell she was made more beautiful by the things she endured. It took me a moment to remember what I was even there for, and I wondered again if this wasn't business but personal affairs. She noticed me, and panicked, pulling a blanket to herself even though she was clothed. I did not yell, I did not shout, I did not strike in my work. I used a level voice, moved calmly and deliberately, and made no sudden movements. People feared that more than an angry man, and it meant there was a lot less cleanup involved. I did not hide that I had a gun. She asked me who I was, and I said I was strictly here on business, and she didn't need to know. She said she didn't trust me, and I told her very simply that if I intended to hurt I would not have waited for her to see me. I told her that all she needed to do was answer me a question, and then she could leave safely. As a show of faith, I stepped out from between her and the door. She weighed her options. She was taller than me, a bit stockier, but I was a man with a gun in my hands. She relented, and with a sigh told me to ask. I told her all I needed to know was where I could find my target. I told her the name.
-
-``Perhaps you are smart enough to know where this is going, but I mistook her panic for loyalty. She became defensive, refusing to give any information and demanding of me explanations. I told her she need not be loyal to him again and again, that it was not worth her life to defend him, and that all I needed to know is where he was. She offered bribes. She offered violence. She offered a great many things I dare not say. I do not know how long our exchange went exactly. Easily 15 minutes, likely more. I grew impatient and finally asked her why his life was worth so much more than hers, and that regardless of what happened to her I had a job and that man had to die.
-
-``She wailed, falling to the floor, and told me with absolute despair that she was the man I was looking for. Only then do I begin to inspect my surroundings carefully. I take notice of the decorations, the aesthetic choices, the recurring theme of rebirth. There was a jacket, hung on the back of a dining table chair, with a flag on the shoulder, a flag of stripes and three colors. Such a jacket was not uncommon among younger generations of my country, but the flag was not the flag of Italia of old, nor any of the new flags of the many states my homeland became under the Western Federation. No, this flag is the standard of a country with no land, abstract territory, yet one I---and, I highly suspect, you as well---reside within. Three colors, yes, but the stripes of the flag are horizontal, not vertical. Five stripes, not three.
-
-``No doubt you have heard the tales of old about those Lost in the sims, in the days before the System. In that moment, like them, I became lost within myself. I was not old then, but I had lived a very long life. I tumbled down through memories, emotions, places, times, lovers, imaginations. This woman before me, born something else, but made beautiful by change, was she as me? Pulled unwilling into the affairs of the family? Forced into shapes preordained, melted down and poured into a mold, cracked upon the altar of tradition, to fit needs or to ornament the mansion walls? Did she break the mold, or melt again to make herself anew? Could I do the same? My lovers were all overlooked or bought off, but in the eyes of those who shaped me, I was property who could buy a place at the table in time but never my own freedom. This Angel before me was an epiphany, and to the gospel of my employers I fell apostate in a moment. In my head and only in my head I begged mercy and forgiveness from her, that I might forever fall to her feet and serve to atone for my trespasses. She was living proof that my resignation to my fate was an act of cowardice, that for years I had been lying to myself. A thousand versions of myself in my head ran to every corner of my mind and pulled together a new self, an eternity of hands falling over themselves to construct some possible way to let this woman go without getting both her and myself killed. No markers lay for how long I was lost in my head, and when I pulled back to the reality before me, I have no idea if I had been gone a second or an hour. The woman before me still wept. I made up my mind. It was made from the moment I saw her jacket.
-
-``I told her to look at me. She did. I told her the man I had come to kill was clearly already dead. She stared at me for a long time. I asked her if her identifications had her old name or her new one on them, and when she said new I cemented a plan. I told her I had no intention of killing her, but that I could not promise the same of my employers. I set my gun on the table. I sorted out for her an impressive sum of money that I kept on my person, as even as late as the 2130s hard currency opened far more doors than brute force. I knelt down beside her on the floor. I pressed into her hands a marker, something that would grant her safe passage anywhere she showed it, an agreement of families and organizations that preceded us by centuries. I told her where to go, what places my family would never tread, and what she needed to say to get there. I told her to wait 20 minutes after I left, pack as little as she could, and leave immediately. She sat there stunned, and only as I got to the door did it grip her that this was real.
-
-``She asked me why I was helping her. I could not lie. I told her that killing her would make her a man again and I could not stand to take such beauty from the world. Manhood is not a problem if it is choice, but I was never given one, and I would not force anyone to reconsider their own decision. I do not know if she understood me, but she nodded. As I departed, she asked if she would see me again. I told her no, I was already as dead as the man I had been sent to kill, and left before she could delay me further.
-
-``I do not know what happened to her. I don't know what happened to the family. I do not know what happened to the cats left in my apartment. I do not even know if the sun set the next night. I moved quickly, using the weight my name had gathered over the years to get me quick passage to Roma. Uploading was still new then, expensive and still a mystery to most, but Roma had an Ansible clinic. I arrived in the city just before dawn, and caught the staff as they arrived for the morning. I drained my accounts and gave them each enough to fund the clinic for a year, to upload me and to strike my name from any records. They asked me what to do with my body. I told them to burn it and toss the ashes into the Tiber. When they objected, I handed them even more money, and finally they gave way.''
-
-Lucia looks up, and out over the countryside rolling by the windows of the train car. How far, she wonders, does it go? Does it end a small ways from the train? Are the mountains on the other side of this valley merely a trick of sensoria? Or has someone rendered them, crafting the walls of stone as they rise from low earth, etching little runs and outcroppings for a thousand meters upward? Does the sim stretch beyond the mountains, an uncanny mirror of the alps that she had traveled phys-side often enough, mostly for business, only very rarely for pleasure? She knows most of the stops are fleshed out, but she has no idea if all the land in between them is. She briefly sees the faint orange reflection of the skunk's jacket in the window, and tries not to think about how long she might have been silent.
-
-Still, as she speaks, it is a few moments before she turns back to the other passenger. ``There is nothing more to tell. The killer for hire died on the Ansible table. I do not miss him. I mourn those whom he took from the world. I carry them on eternally here, as I have since the first day I ever rode this train.''
-
-The skunk smirks. ``I wonder if the riders know they're in your rolling mausoleum.''
-
-Lucia frowns. ``It is not a mausoleum!''
-
-The mephit's lip twitches. ``Right, my mistake, if it doesn't contain any remains, it's called a cenotaph, isn't it?''
-
-The frown turns to a scowl. ``That is not what I mean.''
-
-The skunk leans forward, resting her forearms upon her thighs. ``A confessional, then. Do you say your `hail marys' as we ride along these chancel rails? Quite a trick to use a train to transit the stations of the cross, but with only 6 stops instead of 14, you may find us lacking.''
-
-Lucia turns to her, meaning to scald the other woman with a glare. ``Do not mock me. Those traditions were antiquated before I was born, much less you. I ask nothing of a god I do not believe in. So too the dead are the dead, they feel nothing. Hear nothing. Give nothing. I do this for myself, I grieve. I regret. From what authority do you speak? What right have you to judge?''
-
-The skunk raises her paws in defense. ``I'm not judging.''
-
-Lucia bares her teeth. ``The hell you are not. You speak harshly, think me a sinner.''
-
-The skunk crosses her arms before herself. ``Listen, I am not in the business of \emph{salvation} or \emph{absolution}.''
-
-``Then what, pray tell, are you in the business of?''
-
-The other woman furrows her brow, and leans back. Then, slowly, smugly, she grins. ``\emph{Joie de vivre}.''
-
-Lucia finds herself genuinely unsure how to respond to that, so she doesn't. On she sketches, ignoring her spectator as best she can. A stop comes and goes, the fourth, and neither debark. No one gets on either. Riders. A thread lies untraced in Lucy's mind. She pulls it.
-
-To the skunk she says, ``You asked earlier if the riders know what I do, as if you did not number among them.''
-
-The skunk's face isn't just grinning, there's some anticipation around the edges of it. This stranger has been waiting for this question. ``Not usually, no, not by a traditional count.''
-
-Lucia squints. ``Yet you said before the tunnel that you have observed me here for decades.''
-
-The skunk looks up, and taps a cheeky claw to her chin. ``Yeah, weird, I wonder how that could be?''
-
-``Do you spy on the passengers?''
-
-The skunk tilts her head disappointedly, and lets the silence answer for her.
-
-``Neither then, some small animal, like a mouse or an insect living on the train.''
-
-A shake of a head. ``Construct or instance, I'd consider them passengers, too.''
-
-``And you observed me directly, yes?''
-
-``This is a fun game! Yes, I have countless times.''
-
-Lucy doesn't like this game. She hates the feeling of missing something simple. Perhaps it isn't simple. ``You\ldots you are the train we are riding in, and you have watched me all these years, and forked to something that could speak to me.''
-
-The skunk laughs, and slaps her knees. Lucia turns red, scowling. Wiping humorous tears from her eyes, the skunk says, ``I love artists so much. Creative! Very creative, but a few problems. One: I was born after you uploaded. Two: I only forked and individuated from my root instance in 2357, and Three: the System is capable of many incredible things, but that's a little too fantastic.'' The skunk gave a little head bob. ``I guess in a metaphorical way you could say I speak for the train, but no, I'm afraid as long as I've been around in this sim, I've just been a skunk.''
-
-Lucy looks out the window, and says aloud, ``I do not like this game.''
-
-The skunk laughs again. ``I'm having a blast. Do you want me to tell you?''
-
-The artist glances back only briefly, and shakes her head.
-
-``Do you want me to give you a hint?''
-
-Now Lucia turns to look at her, and when the skunk raises an eyebrow, she relents. ``Fine. Fine! Yes!''
-
-The skunk slips her left paw into her jacket pocket. ``Your hint is: rider and passenger are passive roles.''
-
-Passive? If riding a train is a passive state, what would be an active---
-
-Lucy nearly throws her sketches to the floor, gesticulating angrily. ``You are the engineer. You drive the train.''
-
-``Correct!'' The mephit holds up three clawed fingers on her right paw. ``Beyond maintaining the sim, I wear three hats. One is engineer. The second is stationmaster. But neither of those explain seeing you in this car, do they?''
-
-Lucia's turn to raise an eyebrow. The skunk pulls her left paw from her jacket pocket, and holds up a ticket puncher. Lucia buries her face in her hands. ``Conductor. And now I am the asshole for not even remembering you.''
-
-The skunk scoffs. ``I'm not hurt! Think of it this way, you and this sim have been here for 250 years. I've only been `on board' for about 35. I dug through our personnel records recently, and there have been well over 100 conductors, never mind several active at the same time. You've been focused on your work, faces change, and at some point you stopped paying attention to who was coming around to check for fares. Hell, I've met other regulars in other sims who don't recognize me right away. Same goes for the 15 years I've been stationmaster, and have you ever actually been to the engine? Did you realize it has to be crewed? I'm proud of my work whether it gets seen or not, but often it isn't.''
-
-Lucia finally finds the other end of the thread. ``Do you own this sim?''
-
-The smile fades from the skunk's face. ``As of a week ago, yes.''
-
-``Was it the Century At---''
-
-``Mr. Nguyen had been planning to retire for some time. He'd given full access controls and permissions of the Sim to me a few months back, and after 275 years, he planned to retire at midnight, right as the century rolled over.'' The furred woman bit her lip and looked away. ``I\ldots I don't know if he died in the Attack. The way he was cleaning up his affairs by the end he might have quit the big one. Either way, he's gone.''
-
-A grief settles into Lucia. She realizes she does not know the attendants of this sacred place. If it is half as intricate and complex as she thinks, this sim takes a great amount of work and dedication to keep running. The System's curse of eternal memory meant nothing if she did not bother to take notice of someone in the first place. Dozens of faces. Hundreds, likely. On top of this, layered like a dusting of ash or snow, is the suspicion that now this skunk and whatever forks of her there may be are the only ones left. Both the skunk and Lucia herself were lucky. How many sims now sit empty, with no owner? How many empty homes and shops and cities and wildernesses and worlds wait for occupants, like pets who do not yet know the loss of their caretakers, or worse, cannot understand it? Does the System reclaim them? Should it? Should they stand as cenotaphs, markers of a terrible loss few people can yet truly wrap their heads around? Or like a home in a vibrant neighborhood, should the next inhabitants move in, so that life can go on for the living? She doesn't know. Answers are beyond her, she is the rain that falls from the sky and her eyes in equal measure. She rolls off of resolution or closure, like droplets off the panes of the glass of the traincar.
-
-Her tears soak into the paper of her sketchbook, and that tugs her to reality again. She cannot change the past, but she can change the present, the future. She wipes the water from her eyes hastily. ``I did not know his name. Nor yours, though you clearly know mine.''
-
-The skunk straightens up a little. ``My name is Seras. Seras Frame.''
-
-Lucia nods. ``Seras. I will remember it.''
-
-Seras shrugs. ``You can't forget it.''
-
-Lucia says, ``language is an art, not a science. When we say forget and remember, they can mean many things. I will say your name, Seras. I will speak it aloud and address you and not take you for granted again.''
-
-The train begins to slow as it reaches the fifth stop. Seras looks out the window, then back to Lucia. ``I'll be getting off here, but before I do\ldots'' her voice trails off, and she holds up the ticket puncher, clacking it a few times. Lucia smiles. She pulls the ticket from her pocket, as she has every week for hundreds of years.
-
-Seras stands up and takes it, looking it over. ``Honestly, I was worried we'd lost all our riders. It's hard to say who's just too overwhelmed to show up, and who's gone. If you're here, I'm sure I'll see other old faces soon enough.'' She punches the ticket, and pauses. ``Have you killed anyone since uploading?''
-
-The train comes to a stop, and something deep inside Lucia tenses. She snaps at the skunk. ``Why? Worried I'm going to start up again?''
-
-Seras rolls her eyes, and hands Lucia back her ticket brusquely. ``Just curious.''
-
-The skunk walks away swiftly, headed for the back of the car. She's just about to leave when Lucy finds her voice again. ``I didn't even know you could kill someone here until the bomb went off.''
-
-Seras stops dead in her tracks, but doesn't turn around. Lucy keeps talking.
-
-``I heard rumors of people being assassinated, but I never looked into it. How could you kill someone in a world like this? It all stunk of conspiracy, and you know how people are here. I thought I finally found a world without violence, and for a time I had such a world. Then the bomb devours billions, like an earthquake rending the ground into a maw of Hell. I am brought so close to the jaws of death I remember why I was glad to leave that world behind.'' Lucy feels like a child, small, afraid. Even after transitioning it is a feeling she has rarely felt, and her usual guard falls away. Words tumble from her before she can stop them. ``And I do think this is confessional. I do my penance in this public place, an anonymous sinner, because it must not be done alone. I apologize for my hostility. I do not like to be so plainly and nakedly seen by a stranger, and you frightened me like I haven't been since the Ansible table.''
-
-Seras turns. The two women watch each other for a while. Lucia speaks first.
-
-``Do you think I've done enough? Held this Vigil for enough lifetimes? Should I keep going?''
-
-The train's whistle blows. Seras shakes her head. ``I told you before. I'm not in the business of Absolution or Salvation.'' She walks to the back door. As the railcars start to lurch into motion, she adds, ``I'm just happy to see someone's still riding the train.''
-
-Then she's gone, and Lucia pushes herself over a few seats to the window. She sees the skunk laughing and pulling the back of her jacket over her head. As the train pulls away, she's stomping her boots through the puddles on the platform as she runs for the shelter of an awning.

marsh/content/game-night.tex

@@ -1,325 +0,0 @@
-Joanna sat at her kitchen table, having the hardest time figuring out the next best move to make while playing solitaire. The cards were jumbo print, of course, a leftover from her time phys-side. She was just about to move a column of cards using a king when she heard her doorbell. She could have created her sim so the default entrance was within her home, but she was old-fashioned. She liked having her guests wait a bit while she got around to answer the door. There was something to be said for indulging anticipation, especially on the System, where so many things were instantaneous. She swiped a wrinkled hand over the in-progress game and the cards fluttered away, stored in an exo-cortex to pick up later. She got up slowly and puttered her way over to the front door.
-
-Arranging this get-together was a welcome distraction for her. When she received the confirmation message, she had trouble thinking of much else. Though she hadn't met her visitor yet, Joanna knew what she looked like. She looked out of the peephole to check it was her visitor before undoing the lock and opening up the door.
-
-An older woman was standing on Joanna's front porch. She had a slight hunch to her back and was quite short so that Joanna had to look down slightly to make eye contact. She was wearing a striped shirt with comfortable slacks and her gray hair was done up in a perm tighter than any of the folds of her skin. She was clutching a small purse and looked expectantly at Joanna to make the first move.
-
-``I trust you're Bethann then? Saw my ad in the feeds?'' Joanna asked.
-
-``Yes, yes. And you must be Joanna. I decided to come and see what this is about. I could also use a break after all the unpleasantness that's been going on.''
-
-``Well that is an understatement. Still, I am glad you made the trip out.''
-
-``Likewise. Now, can I come inside? The outside of your sim isn't exactly winning any awards.''
-
-Joanna held out her hand to help the woman climb up the final step into the house. Bethann pushed past her hand and stepped inside without another thought. The interior was cozy, if not a little dusty. There was a boxy T.V. set into an ornate wooden frame that sat on the floor facing the living room. The thought of moving it was impossible, it had been there long enough to begin fusing with the floorboards underneath it. The couch had an intricate floral pattern for a flower that Bethann was sure did not exist. Perhaps a take on an object'd'art from the Exchange? The coffee table, fittingly, had an abandoned cup of coffee sitting off to the side. The living room was small, barely enough room to step around the tables and furniture to move around. Bethann wondered to herself why Joanna had decided to make her sim so cramped. Before she could ask, Joanna said, ``I'm glad you could take time out of your busy schedule to come over.''
-
-A blatant attempt to guilt Bethann over her re-scheduling their meeting. She let the comment slide off of her and responded with, ``I would have arrived sooner, but I won't miss my shows. I've been getting invested in the newest reboot of Darkest Shadows. They've learned a lot from the last seven attempts that is making the show compelling to keep up with.''
-
-``I'm more partial to Bonanza myself, but I don't think the writers knew what to do with Hoss in the latest version being produced sys-side. I stopped watching when Little Joe forked into Medium Joe and Big Joe. That's just too much Joe for one show.''
-
-``Yes, it does sound like a lot. So where are we doing this? I don't think there's enough leg room for us to set up here.''
-
-Joanna puttered around Bethann, shuffling her feet on the worn carpet as she did so. She waved her hand for Bethann to follow her. ``This way dear, we'll have more room in the kitchen.''
-
-Bethann walked over and sat down in one of the two chairs set up at the kitchen table. Much like everything else in the sim, it seemed tailor-made for Joanna's convenience first. The table was big enough to seat one extra guest and no more. Joanna arrived shortly after Bethann had set down her purse. If Bethann had noticed how Joanna had neglected to offer her a drink or snack before they were settled, she didn't say so.
-
-``What game would you like to play first? Was there a favorite that your young gentleman would choose?''
-
-Joanna laughed, ``You get right to the point don't you? Reminds me of him in a way. But to answer your question, we would take turns in picking out the games we would play. Since you are my guest, I'll give you the first choice.''
-
-``That's mighty kind of you. I'm partial to boardgames, so I'll suggest something simple to start with. Have you ever played Uncle Wiggily?''
-
-``I can't say that I have, but I'm willing to learn.''
-
-``If you'll grant me the proper ACL's, I can grab it out of the games I've brought with me.''
-
-Joanna looked up and away for a few seconds before saying, ``There, you should have permission now.''
-
-Bethann reached her hands into her purse and pulled out a colorful box with a collection of anthropomorphic animals dressed in fancy clothes prancing about in an idyllic forest. The majority of the box art was taken up by the titular Uncle Wiggily, a dandy rabbit man with a black suit jacket, bright yellow shirt, red corduroy pants, blue bowtie, and a top hat that he had tipped to the side.
-
-Bethann opened up the box and began unfolding the game board and setting out the player markers. ``If you're at all familiar with Candy Land, it plays similarly. You draw cards from the deck and on each of the cards is a number that tells you how much you are to move. The catch is that there are poems on each of the cards and you must read out the poem before you are allowed to move.''
-
-``Every time? Wouldn't that get tiring?'' Joanna asked.
-
-``It's a part of the overall whimsy the game is trying to evoke. You are a dandy woodland animal having a merry time of skipping through the forest after all.''
-
-Bethann set the player pieces in front of Joanna, each a copy of Uncle Wiggily but with different colored suits in red, green, blue, and yellow. Joanna chose the blue piece and Bethann chose the green. They set their pieces on the starting square and took turns reading the cards and moving their pieces. As they settled into a rhythm of passing turns, they talked with each other.
-
-``I'm deeply sorry for your loss. I've lost a lot of good friends in the New Year too,'' Bethann said.
-
-``Thank you. It's been a terrible few days.''
-
-``What was your young gentleman's name?''
-
-``His name was NaSRFS. I didn't know much about him, but he would come once a week to spend time with me. Didn't strike me as a tracker, more of a tasker really. That made his choice to visit a little more special. It's nice to know that he was willing to fork for our time together.''
-
-For a moment, Bethann's shoulders tensed at the mention of NaSRFS, and then it was gone. ``That does sound nice. It's good for us old fogeys to socialize with younger instances. They keep us up to date on what's happening outside of our own sims in the System, do they not?''
-
-It was a leading question, but Joanna was not taking the bait. After an uncomfortable silence had passed, Bethann placed her marker at the end of the winding path and said, ``I guess that makes me the winner. Why don't you choose a game for us to play next?'' She gathered up the pieces, shuffled the cards, and folded up the board in quick measure. Packing it away quickly and carefully.
-
-``Oh, I know just the game. I'm more for card games, so I'll teach you how to play Clock.''
-
-``Never heard of it before.''
-
-``Then I'm glad I can be your introduction.'' Joanna pointed her hand down and flicked it quickly upwards. Through the motion, she had produced a standard deck of playing cards with the words JUMBO PRINT on the side in large bubble letters. She took out the cards, removed the jokers and rule card, and began shuffling the deck. As she shuffled, she explained the basics of the game.
-
-``Clock is a lot like a cooperative variant of solitaire. You work together to play cards on the various positions around the `clock' that is built around the deck. But it is a competitive game too, as each play gets both of you closer to playing out the cards in your hand and winning the game.''
-
-``Sounds delightful. How many cards do we get?''
-
-``Five to start, but if you don't have a play, you draw until you have a playable card.'' Joanna stopped shuffling and dealt out the cards to herself and Bethann. She alternated giving each of them a card until they had a full hand of five. Then, she turned over four cards from the top of the deck to form a cross shape around the deck in the center.
-
-``I'll go first,'' Joanna said, placing a black five on top of a red six.
-
-Bethann played a red nine on a black ten and passed her turn. A few turns later, Joanna stopped her turn to say, ``Aces are special, you play them on the corners and then can build on top of that suit. They provide a new set of plays to make on your turn and open up new strategies.'' She laid down her ace of hearts in the upper left corner, closest to Bethann. ``You've been awfully quiet. Are you also thinking of someone you lost recently?''
-
-Bethann grumbled and drew from the deck until she had a three she could play.
-
-``Yes, a good many someones. Three long-lived instances of my own that I will miss, though they never called, so less so than others.''
-
-``I was lucky enough to keep all of my personal instances. I'm sorry to hear you have lost some of yours.'' She played a king and moved a column of cards onto another column.
-
-``It's small potatoes in comparison to the rest of the System. But I guess everyone's hurting.'' Bethann played a queen on Joanna's king.
-
-``I've reached out to my family, but they're reeling too.''
-
-``I really should do that. With everything happening, I didn't really consider it.''
-
-``That's surprising. Especially when you agreed to spend time with a stranger on such short notice. No other friends available?'' Joanna was needling Bethann, trying to get her to crack.
-
-``Much as I would love to tell you, it seems as though you've won.'' Bethann moved the six of hearts onto the five in the corner and waited expectantly.
-
-Joanna swore under her breath. She played her last card, the seven of hearts, and said, ``So I have. What are we playing next?''
-
-``Phase 10 but with dice. I could do with throwing something right now.''
-
-Joanna tried to keep the insinuation that she had thrown their previous match deliberately out of her voice. ``Sounds interesting, how do you play?''
-
-``If you're familiar with Yahtzee, it's similar in a lot of ways. You roll all ten of your dice and then choose which you want to keep, re-rolling up to three times. Then you try to make hands with the numbers you rolled and we score after ten rounds.''
-
-Bethann brought out the game and they spent time talking about little things. Joanna mentioned her new favorite coffee brand she had found on the Exchange while Bethann complained of the gall of the newest uploads in their tone on the shared feeds. While they were both still listening intently, neither prodded the other for more information than was given. Before they knew it, ten rounds had passed.
-
-Bethann tallied up their scores and said, ``My, my. I seem to have won this one.''
-
-``I can't believe your third re-roll actually mattered in that final round.''
-
-``What can I say? Risk is necessary if you want to win.''
-
-``I've got my own game that has an element of risk.''
-
-``Oh? Do tell.''
-
-``It's called Steal-A-Bundle. You make pairs with the cards on the board and the cards in your hand, but your pile can be stolen out from under you if your opponent has the same card that is on top of your pile in their hand.''
-
-``Hmm, sounds like it could get tricky quickly. Well, go ahead and deal out the cards then.''
-
-Joanna shuffled her well-worn deck and placed four cards face up in the center of the table. She then dealt out four cards to each of them. They passed turns back and forth, each placing a card from their hand onto a card in the center and adding it to their pile. They were even with each other until Joanna had picked up a set of eight's. Bethann flashed her own eight from her hand and moved Joanna's bundle on top of her own.
-
-``A shame, Joanna, truly. It seems you don't know how to manage risk after all.''
-
-Joanna's eyebrow twitched at that. Bethann had crossed a line with that implication. She placed the remaining eight from the deck on top of Bethann's bundle, pulling the cards into her own pile. ``I know more than you can imagine. Like that you also had a standing game night with NaSFRS.''
-
-Bethann's eyes went wide. ``How did you\ldots''
-
-But Joanna cut her off, ``When I found out he was lost, I did some digging. And I can never just leave well-enough alone. I think you did much the same as me. I respect you enough to think that you weren't completely unaware of the way I worded my ad on the feed. It was set to run in your most heavily trafficked areas after all. Let's cut the shit for a second.''
-
-Bethann let herself relax and the tone of her voice was icy, calculated. ``You should know that I forked just for this meeting. If you're carrying out some grand plot, you're not going to take me out here.''
-
-Joanna scoffed and said, ``We've just met, I don't expect you to have a CPV built out for me. And I don't have one for you, if you are worried about that. That comes later once we get to know each other better.''
-
-``Then what, exactly, are you driving at?''
-
-Joanna leaned across the table and got in Bethann's face as she whispered, ``He got us to drop our guard. Both of us.''
-
-``Yes, that is troubling. But whatever he knew has left with him. Shouldn't that be a comfort?'' Bethann asked.
-
-Joanna's face pulled down into a deep frown. ``We know a lot of dangerous secrets.''
-
-Bethann waved a hand through the air, dismissing her concerns. ``Oh sure, bunches. But that doesn't make it easier to lose him.''
-
-Joanna leaned back, which caused the wooden chair to creak slightly. ``How can you be certain he wasn't just using us to get intel?''
-
-``I can't be sure, but we used him too. Admit it. Wasn't it good to have someone to play games with that would give a damn?''
-
-Joanna's frown eased back off into a tired smile. ``Yes, it was. He knew how to keep things interesting.''
-
-``If it helps, I miss him terribly as well.''
-
-``Strangely, it does.`` Joanna straightened up and asked, ``Now what are we playing next?''
-
-``I'd like to kick this up a notch. Try something a bit more complicated. Have you ever played Othello before?''
-
-``Hmm, not particularly. Are you sure you don't want to play chess?''
-
-``No, no. I find it to be too cliche. And we're playing friendly games, correct? I have a bit of a mean streak with chess.''
-
-``Othello it is then.''
-
-Joanna cleared the table with a thought, the playing cards sliding effortlessly back into their box. Bethann dug around in her purse until she found a small bright green board that folded in the middle. She unclasped a hinge on the side and opened the board up. Inside of the board were two trays, each filled with shiny round plastic tiles that had white on one side and black on the other. She set one of these trays in front of Joanna and the other in front of herself. She then took four tiles and put them in the middle of the board in a cube in the pattern of white-black-black-white.
-
-Bethann explained the rules of Othello in painstaking detail. She spent so long on the rules that Joanna wondered if they were going to have time to actually play the game. She interrupted Bethann's explanation of the importance of taking the corners by saying, ``Seems straightforward to me. I think I can pick up the rest as we play.''
-
-Bethann shrugged her shoulders and motioned to the two colors. ``Now, which color would you like?'' Bethann asked.
-
-``How generous of you to give me first pick. I'd like the white tile please.''
-
-``Then I will go first as black.''
-
-She picked up a tile and placed it on the board so that the white tile was between her two black ones. She then flipped the white tile over and made the whole line black. Joanna thought for a moment before deciding on where she wanted to place her tile. She reached hesitantly across the board and placed her white tile, flipping the black pieces to white. They passed a few more turns before Joanna started to feel the pressure the game had to offer.
-
-Joanna's forehead wrinkles were scrunched up as she concentrated on the board. ``You don't give an inch, do ya?'' She placed a white tile and could only flip over two.
-
-Bethann placed her tile, flipping five white to black and said, ``I've no patience for people who coddle when competing. Oh, it's important to explain the rules. And you daresn't leave out any details or gain the upper hand by withholding at the start. But once you are playing a game, then you are on your own. For is it not the act of playing that teaches us the most? How can there be sweetness in eventual victory without having been defeated? Loss can be an excellent teacher, if you let it.''
-
-Joanna placed her white tile and methodically flipped over row after column of black tiles until the majority of the board was covered in white. ``And what has this loss taught you?''
-
-Bethann grimaced down at the board on the table. ``That I need to be more careful with how I place my pieces. But the game is not over yet.'' She tapped her container of tiles to emphasize the fact the game was just starting.
-
-``No, not this. I meant \emph{the loss. }The one that everyone on the System is working through.''
-
-Bethann thought for a while and placed her tile on a corner. While it only gave her four tiles, she was using it to gain a future foothold. She replied tiredly, ``That we are not as immortal as we like to believe. It is easy to forget the fragility of our shared dream. And living much longer lives has shifted our collective perspective.''
-
-``Do you think that we'll be able to heal, without being able to forget?'' She placed a tile that gave her a full row of white.
-
-``I think it's possible, yes. But again, the scale of time for that healing to occur is elongated. To help my case, I'd like to share something about NaSRFS that I discovered while mourning. He was only 120 years old. Can you believe that?'' She claimed a full column of black.
-
-Joanna gasped and said, ``He was just a baby! Barely over a century old and gone already. Too soon, much too soon.'' Two diagonal lines of white flipped onto the board.
-
-``You see my point though. Phys-side, 120 is an incredibly long life, but here you're just getting to the good stuff. I don't think everyone is as worried about losing an entire year as someone phys-side would be coming out of a coma. Because to us, a year is a drop in a bucket of time. Inconvenient, yes, but devastating, no. It is the loss of the promised years of those that disappeared that weighs heavy on us. The collective potential of billions of immortals snuffed out that has us weary to our bones.''
-
-Bethann placed her last black tile, but it could only flip over one tile. She could tell Joanna was going to win a few turns ago. When Joanna placed her last tile, she didn't even flip over the tiles. Instead, Bethann flipped them for her as she talked.
-
-``I suppose I could see that. If I'm being honest, I had a similar reaction recently. The day after New Years, I realized that I hadn't turned off my reminder for NaSRFS coming over to play cards. When I got the notification ping, it took me a moment to realize that he wasn't coming. Then that dovetailed into thinking about all of the other weeks left in the year where I would not see him and I felt myself a fool. Both for forgetting to turn off the alert and for grieving time that was not spent.''
-
-Joanna looked to be on the verge of tears. Bethann reached out a hand across the table to comfort her, patting her hand gently. Joanna let the moment last for a second and no longer, immediately pulling her hand back towards her pack of cards. She was upset at the fact that Bethann had managed to get her to let her guard down and show her sadness. The last person to manage that had played her. Composure regained and wobble gone from her voice, she said, ``One more game. And this time, I get to choose my favorite.''
-
-It was a dare. An invitation to dance along the edge of their shared grief at their limit. To play a host's favorite game in their own house was incredibly dangerous.
-
-Bethann steepled her fingers and breathed out through her nose slowly. ``I do hope I don't regret this, Joanna. But I'll bite, what game are we playing?''
-
-``Texas hold `em poker.''
-
-A small smile at the corners of Bethann's mouth. ``It's hardly interesting without a proper wager.''
-
-Joanna shrugged and said, ``I suppose you have a point. Whoever wins the round, gets to ask one question. No stipulations or affordances made or given. If you know the answer, you must talk.''
-
-Bethann nodded, ``Agreeable. Deal out the hand.''
-
-``You know how to play then?''
-
-``Everyone knows poker, Joanna. Let's face each other properly.''
-
-Bethann waved her hand through the air towards the middle of the table, Othello board and pieces vanishing into mist. Her bag lurched to life and coughed out a large pile of multicolored poker chips. With a quirk of her eyebrow and a twitch of her eye, the pile was divided neatly in half. Joanna let the cards fly from the open box to settle in front of them, two face down each. The only sound in the room was the steady ticking of the novelty cuckoo clock on the wall. Each woman peeked at her hand as though it held the secret to the universe. And then, the game began.
-
-``Ante.''
-
-``Call. Playing the flop.''
-
-``Bet.''
-
-``Raise.''
-
-``Call.''
-
-``Playing the turn.''
-
-Bethann scowled, ``Fold.''
-
-Joanna scooped the wagered chips into her pile. She gathered the cards up with her hands, shuffled them, and offered the deck to Bethann to cut. She tapped the top, declining the offer. Joanna dexterously dealt the cards out to both of them.
-
-``Ante.''
-
-``Call. Playing the flop.''
-
-``Bet.''
-
-``Call. Playing the turn.''
-
-``Check.''
-
-``Check. Playing the river.''
-
-``Bet.''
-
-Joanna shook her head and said, ``Fold.''
-
-Bethann snatched the chips in the wagered pile and let them slip through her fingers and clink musically into her personal stash.
-
-Joanna gathered the cards and handed the pile to Bethann. ``You'll deal.'' It was not a question, but a command. Bethann did not refuse. She bridge shuffled the cards together a few times and then offered the deck to Joanna to cut, which she did.
-
-They were all business. Only speaking when taking game actions. Each blink of the eyes told a new and complex story. A flick of a card on the outside of the flop before the turn was enough to raise and force a fold. Or the sniffle of a nose was a false tell meant to throw the opponent. Hands kept only on the feeling that the tapping of a foot was excitement and not nerves. The myriad invisible ways in which they both could not help but to give their hands away. Everything that they had learned from each other in the last few hours was put to ruthless, efficient use.
-
-Bethann started the round, hoping to force Joanna to bet all her chips, ``Ante.''
-
-``Call.''
-
-``Playing the flop.'' She dealt out three cards; two of diamonds, jack of spades, and five of hearts. Joanna itched the back of her leg with her foot. Bethann hesitated for a second before removing her fingers from the five of hearts.
-
-``Check.''
-
-``Check. Playing the turn.'' Bethann dealt out the next card, nine of diamonds, and took an opportunity to peek at her two face down cards. She noticed that Joanna's eyes had lost some of their edge. Only a sliver, but enough to catch.
-
-``Bet.'' Joanna tossed her chips high in the air and let them hit the middle pile one at a time. She was teasing Bethann. She wouldn't have it.
-
-``Raise.'' Her betting was serious and succinct. She used the back of her right hand to push the required chips into the pile. She kept eye contact with Joanna as she moved them.
-
-``Call.'' Joanna clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth and the chips needed appeared on top of the betting pile. She only had a few chips left.
-
-``Playing the river.'' Bethann turned over the final card, a 2 of clubs.
-
-``Check.''
-
-``No all-in Joanna? Where's your sense of adventure?''
-
-``I have my own cliches I'm opposed to. Ready to reveal?''
-
-``Let's see what you have.''
-
-The two players flipped over their face down cards and they each announced their poker hand in turn.
-
-``Two pair,'' Joanna said. She had a jack of hearts and a nine of spades.
-
-``Three of a kind.'' Bethann had revealed a seven of hearts and a two of spades. A hand just good enough to beat out Joanna's. She slumped back into her chair a little, letting the tension from her body relax. Joanna sat and stared at the poker hands for a while, letting the silence stretch on. She broke it by pushing the poker chips from the center over into Bethann's pile.
-
-Bethann did her best to sit straight up again and said, ``You don't have enough chips to make the ante, Joanna. I've won. Now it's your turn to spill.''
-
-Joanna tapped the kitchen table rhythmically with her pointer finger, a frown deeping on her face. ``Go ahead and ask it then.''
-
-``What actually happened on New Year's?''
-
-Joanna sighed and said, ``I don't know.''
-
-Bethann reached for her purse, a scowl had crawled onto her face. ``If you won't play by the rules you set your\ldots''
-
-But Joanna cut her off. ``I'm not asking you to believe me! I don't know. Half of my network is gone and the other half are scrambling for answers. The information lockdown is tighter than it's ever been. Whatever happened is so important, they've shut down my usual avenues for sniffing it out. Not to mention the emotional state everyone's been in. You try retaining a system log dump file that's trillions of lines long while the agent who brought it to you breaks down into tears on line 555,678,901 because their best friend died and they didn't know!''
-
-Bethann let go of her purse and her expression softened. She could see how frazzled Joanna was from how tightly she clutched her fist. Her eyes, endlessly tired and yet still intense and sharp, dared Bethann to question her testimony. But Bethann knew she was telling the truth.
-
-``Thank goodness it's not just me. I've personally got twenty-four forks scouring the System for leads and haven't come up with anything substantial. I thought I was losing my touch.''
-
-Joanna laughed and said hoarsely, ``I've got fifty-two working overtime right now. The merging has been a bit much to keep up with, but it sounds like they're bringing out the big players for this.''
-
-``Council of Eight nonsense?''
-
-``Most assuredly.''
-
-``Ah, well then. Nothing a change in tactics can't fix right?''
-
-``Beats moping around all day for sure. Need to use all this restless energy somehow.''
-
-Bethann stood up from her seat and said, ``This was fun. I didn't realize how much I needed it. I think I'd like to come over again. Perhaps without the spycraft next time.''
-
-``Oh, come now Bethann. You know that's what makes it fun. Besides, I think that's what he would have wanted.''
-
-``Same time next week then?''
-
-``No, I wasn't born yesterday. You'll know I'm game from this series of sensorium pings.''
-
-Joanna sent over a quick succession of five sensorium pings and watched Bethann's expression turn to one of manic glee.
-
-``That works for me. Have a lovely night Joanna.''
-
-``You as well, Bethann.''
-
-And with that, Bethann stepped from the sim back to her own home. Joanna willed the sim to dim the lights. She puttered back to sit at the kitchen table and brought out the solitaire game once more. After carefully considering her options, she decided to not move the column with the king after all. Instead, she placed a red queen on top of it and drew a new card. She smiled brightly down at the board and her hand as everything started to fall into place.

marsh/content/home-from-the-game.tex

@@ -1,121 +0,0 @@
-She hadn't seen them in\ldots{} well, in years. And yet, here they were\ldots{} sitting on her couch. She swallowed, awkwardly, and took another step closer.
-
-She was never really \emph{comfortable} around her own forks, even one as sufficiently\ldots{} What was the word again? Right, as sufficiently \emph{individuated} as this one. Hell, they lacked everything she considered \emph{herself}. The brown hair tied back in a scruff was gone, replaced with a shaggy mane shot through with a green streak. The ridiculous clothes, plated with bulky metal and accompanied by a cape.
-
-Oh, and of course, the fact her fork had turned into a \emph{massive hulking wolf-person.}
-
-She watched it as it sat on the couch, massive snouted head hanging low, the creature that used to be just like her in every way. They stared glumly down into a space somewhere on the floor. Deep brown fur, almost matching the tone of her skin, was gently ruffled by the breeze of a fan.
-
-She took a deep breath. ``So\ldots{} um\ldots''
-
-``I'm sorry.'' The creature's voice was a low rumble, its head raised up to look at her. ``I know\ldots{} especially with everything that's been going on regarding the attack\ldots{} it's hard to put up with an unexpected guest\ldots''
-
-``Yeah. Well\ldots'' She shrugged. ``I mean\ldots{} It's good to catch up!''
-
-``I just\ldots'' The wolf swallowed. ``I need to be around people. And you're the only person I know outside of\ldots''
-
-She nodded as her up-tree's sentence tapered off. ``The game.''
-
-The single-page announcement lay on the arm of the couch, where her fork had left it.
-
-\begin{quote}
-\begin{center}
-\textbf{Forbidden Sector to Close For the Foreseeable Future}
-\end{center}
-
-Hey all. Devteam here.
-
-No doubt by now you've heard the news; a significant number of our fellow uploaded instances here on Lagrange have permanently crashed from a large-scale terrorist attack inflicted on system architecture. In the wake of the ongoing crisis, we have seen fit to shut down the sim for the foreseeable future.
-
-All instances will be removed from the sim. Do not worry; your character data will be safe. We are cooperating with systechs and the Council to address what damage, if any, has been done to the game and the toll of those within. A memorial will be constructed in the Sky Palazzo at New Terra, in remembrance of those who are now gone.
-
-The game will reopen soon enough. Until then\ldots{}
-
-Stay safe. Keep each other close.
-
-\emph{— Forbidden Sector Dev Team}
-
-\begin{quote}
-What Gifts We Give, We Give In Death (Ode Clade)
-
-Simon ``Clank'' Knight (Tarot Clade)
-
-Caela Argent (Tarot Clade)
-\end{quote}
-\end{quote}
-
-Sadie had first played it\ldots{} oh, back in the 2320s. Close to a century ago, shortly after she'd uploaded. It was the sort of space-action-adventure sandbox game every sci-fi nerd dreamed of. Not that she'd ever admit to being a sci-fi nerd, of course, but there was a time when Sadie played it obsessively for a month, and decided to waste no more time on it after one character she played met a spectacularly \emph{explosive} end.
-
-As a condolence to herself, she created a \emph{single} fork, the only one she would ever create, and told it to have fun while it played, and return once its character had died.
-
-And, clearly, it had lived and died as many characters, each time returning to the game without merging down. Each death, it rolled a new one.
-
-Until it became whoever it was in front of her. A\ldots{} the name of the species sat on the tip of her tongue.
-
-\emph{Loup-Garou!}
-
-The Loup-Garou were fictional, and absolutely nothing like the species of Artemis encountered a near-century after their creation. Instead, they were a species of anthropomorphic wolves, A concept Sadie found more than a little embarrassing and frankly ridiculous.
-
-Given that all three of \emph{Forbidden Sector}'s designers had been furries, it was only natural that there would be a species of strong, muscular wolf-people.
-
-So of \emph{course} the fork of herself she left there would evolve into\ldots{} into \emph{this}. She'd try different techniques for each character, moving to a different strategy or build if the last one failed. Eventually she landed on one character that would survive, after failure after failure, and for some reason that just \emph{had} to be the shaggy-haired wolf person.
-
-And now that wolf person she'd become was sitting here. In her house.
-
-She turned back to her bowl of cereal, took a bite, then swallowed. ``So\ldots{} Not that your company is unappreciated, but\ldots''
-
-``I'll be out of your hair soon enough.'' The fork rubbed its eyes. ``Just\ldots{} need a few days.''
-
-``Good. Good. I'm\ldots{} I'm glad.'' Watching the wolf person's head turn away, she realized that her phrasing was probably not the kindest.
-
-``I was just\ldots{} well, apologizing for not really having enough accommodations for you.'' She scooped up more cereal, gulping it down.
-
-``Mm. It's fine. I lived in a \emph{spaceship}.'' The wolf chuckled. ``Leg room is kind of at a premium there, y'know?''
-
-``You had a ship of your own? Wouldn't that mean you'd have\ldots'' She feebly thumbed through her memory to try and find the exact game parlance, before giving up and settling on what came immediately to mind; ``A\ldots{} a guild? Why not try rooming with them, I'm sure you'd prefer it over--''
-
-The whine that escaped the wolf's lips, (\emph{her} lips?) sent a shiver down her spine. Watching her fork's ears fold back was like a cold knife in her chest.
-
-``Crew's gone, Sadie.'' The wolf shook her head. ``All of them.''
-
-``All of them?'' Sadie blinked.
-
-``Vax and the Scrap-Breaker were both taken by CPV. Aska crashed from grief and Charles merged back down with his Root. It's me and Miller left. And Miller\ldots{} won't answer my calls.''
-
-``Oh. Oh jeez, I--''
-
-``I'll move out by next week, I just\ldots'' The wolf sniffled. ``I just need to be around somebody right now. I know I'm not the most\ldots{} familiar person to you, despite--''
-
-``I understand.'' Sadie laid her bowl of cereal down in the sink, immediately rushing over to comfort her alternate self. ``Seriously. I do.''
-
-As she sat beside the her-that-wasn't-herself, she idly reached over to scratch the ears of their massive lupine form. The wolf shrugged, nuzzling into the gesture. It at once surprised her, and yet made total sense; with enough perisystem manipulation, you could emulate the senses of anything. Even an alien species, with senses of taste, smell, \emph{instinct}, radically different from that of a human.
-
-Even a Loup-Garou from \emph{Forbidden Sector}.
-
-And of course, next to her was a version of herself that had embraced that, while she'd rejected it. And of course, even through individuation she could still see the little threads of herself in the wolf. Her fork's dark brown fur was the exact tone of her skin, she still bounced her leg when bored, and she still tapped her index finger against her thumb when she was stressed.
-
-All this time, she'd thought of the game as a waste of time, something that her fork would tire of eventually. Little did she know that this fork had been forming connections and making friends, just as she herself had, and that those fragile connections were just as easily severed as hers.
-
-And now, at the turning of the century, after a terrorist attack that had taken the lives of so many\ldots{}
-
-Her fork was here.
-
-She was still alive.
-
-``I'm sorry.'' She leaned over, gripping the wolf. ``I\ldots{} I've made a total mess of things. I never even thought to ask if you changed your name.''
-
-The wolf blinked. ``Oh. Oh drek, I'm sorry. I'd completely forgotten you don't know me.'' She squeezed her eyes shut in laughter. ``I\ldots{} back in the game, I'd become somewhat infamous. Pirate Queen, you know. Everyone knew me.'' She thrust out a paw. ``Mistress Lissa, at your service.''
-
-``Sadie\ldots{} I mean, you knew that\ldots'' She sighed. ``Sorry, it's hard getting used to--''
-
-``I know.'' The wolf chuckled awkwardly. ``It's awkward for me, too.''
-
-She stared into Lissa's eyes. Her own eyes. ``I really should have sent you a sensorium ping or\ldots{} or something. I\ldots{} I'm sorry for never checking up on you.''
-
-Lissa shrugged. ``Hey. That cuts both ways. I guess I was scared that you'd see \emph{this} and think\ldots{} Well, I dunno.''
-
-``I'm\ldots{} I'm just so glad you're still here. I wish we could have met—\emph{properly} met—in different circumstances.''
-
-Lissa wrapped a paw around her Root Instance, tugging her closer. ``We're here now. No point in looking back, right? We've got each other, no matter what happens.''
-
-And so they sat, wolf and human, fork and root instance, together.

marsh/stories/a-well-trained-eye.tex

@@ -240,7 +240,7 @@ Lucia finally finds the other end of the thread. ``Do you own this sim?''
 
 The smile fades from the skunk's face. ``As of a week ago, yes.''
 
-``Was it the Century At---''
+``Was it the Century At--''
 
 ``Mr. Nguyen had been planning to retire for some time. He'd given full access controls and permissions of the Sim to me a few months back, and after 275 years, he planned to retire at midnight, right as the century rolled over.'' The furred woman bit her lip and looked away. ``I\ldots I don't know if he died in the Attack. The way he was cleaning up his affairs by the end he might have quit the big one. Either way, he's gone.''
 

marsh/stories/game-night.tex

@@ -1,7 +1,3 @@
-\textbf{Game Night}
-
-\textbf{2401-Joanna}
-
 Joanna sat at her kitchen table, having the hardest time figuring out the next best move to make while playing solitaire. The cards were jumbo print, of course, a leftover from her time phys-side. She was just about to move a column of cards using a king when she heard her doorbell. She could have created her sim so the default entrance was within her home, but she was old-fashioned. She liked having her guests wait a bit while she got around to answer the door. There was something to be said for indulging anticipation, especially on the System, where so many things were instantaneous. She swiped a wrinkled hand over the in-progress game and the cards fluttered away, stored in an exo-cortex to pick up later. She got up slowly and puttered her way over to the front door.
 
 Arranging this get-together was a welcome distraction for her. When she received the confirmation message, she had trouble thinking of much else. Though she hadn't met her visitor yet, Joanna knew what she looked like. She looked out of the peephole to check it was her visitor before undoing the lock and opening up the door.
@@ -78,9 +74,7 @@ It was a leading question, but Joanna was not taking the bait. After an uncomfor
 
 Bethann played a red nine on a black ten and passed her turn. A few turns later, Joanna stopped her turn to say, ``Aces are special, you play them on the corners and then can build on top of that suit. They provide a new set of plays to make on your turn and open up new strategies.'' She laid down her ace of hearts in the upper left corner, closest to Bethann. ``You've been awfully quiet. Are you also thinking of someone you lost recently?''
 
-\begin{quote}
 Bethann grumbled and drew from the deck until she had a three she could play.
-\end{quote}
 
 ``Yes, a good many someones. Three long-lived instances of my own that I will miss, though they never called, so less so than others.''
 

marsh/stories/home-from-the-game.tex

@@ -1,7 +1,3 @@
-\emph{In which a Tracker's long-lost fork comes back after a grievous accident.}
-
-\emph{\textbf{Sadie Amara -- 2401}}
-
 She hadn't seen them in\ldots{} well, in years. And yet, here they were\ldots{} sitting on her couch. She swallowed, awkwardly, and took another step closer.
 
 She was never really \emph{comfortable} around her own forks, even one as sufficiently\ldots{} What was the word again? Right, as sufficiently \emph{individuated} as this one. Hell, they lacked everything she considered \emph{herself}. The brown hair tied back in a scruff was gone, replaced with a shaggy mane shot through with a green streak. The ridiculous clothes, plated with bulky metal and accompanied by a cape.
@@ -22,25 +18,31 @@ She nodded as her up-tree's sentence tapered off. ``The game.''
 
 The single-page announcement lay on the arm of the couch, where her fork had left it.
 
-\emph{\textbf{Forbidden Sector to Close For the Foreseeable Future}}
+\begin{quote}
+\begin{center}
+\textbf{Forbidden Sector to Close For the Foreseeable Future}
+\end{center}
 
-\emph{Hey all. Devteam here.}
+Hey all. Devteam here.
 
-\emph{No doubt by now you've heard the news; a significant number of our fellow uploaded instances here on Lagrange have permanently crashed from a large-scale terrorist attack inflicted on system architecture. In the wake of the ongoing crisis, we have seen fit to shut down the sim for the foreseeable future.}
+No doubt by now you've heard the news; a significant number of our fellow uploaded instances here on Lagrange have permanently crashed from a large-scale terrorist attack inflicted on system architecture. In the wake of the ongoing crisis, we have seen fit to shut down the sim for the foreseeable future.
 
-\emph{All instances will be removed from the sim. Do not worry; your character data will be safe. We are cooperating with systechs and the Council to address what damage, if any, has been done to the game and the toll of those within. A memorial will be constructed in the Sky Palazzo at New Terra, in remembrance of those who are now gone.}
+All instances will be removed from the sim. Do not worry; your character data will be safe. We are cooperating with systechs and the Council to address what damage, if any, has been done to the game and the toll of those within. A memorial will be constructed in the Sky Palazzo at New Terra, in remembrance of those who are now gone.
 
-\emph{The game will reopen soon enough. Until then\ldots{}}
+The game will reopen soon enough. Until then\ldots{}
 
-\emph{Stay safe. Keep each other close.}
+Stay safe. Keep each other close.
 
-\emph{Forbidden Sector Dev Team}
+\emph{— Forbidden Sector Dev Team}
 
-\emph{What Gifts We Give, We Give In Death (Ode Clade)}
+\begin{quote}
+What Gifts We Give, We Give In Death (Ode Clade)
 
-\emph{Simon ``Clank'' Knight (Tarot Clade)}
+Simon ``Clank'' Knight (Tarot Clade)
 
-\emph{Caela Argent (Tarot Clade)}
+Caela Argent (Tarot Clade)
+\end{quote}
+\end{quote}
 
 Sadie had first played it\ldots{} oh, back in the 2320s. Close to a century ago, shortly after she'd uploaded. It was the sort of space-action-adventure sandbox game every sci-fi nerd dreamed of. Not that she'd ever admit to being a sci-fi nerd, of course, but there was a time when Sadie played it obsessively for a month, and decided to waste no more time on it after one character she played met a spectacularly \emph{explosive} end.
 
@@ -112,10 +114,8 @@ She stared into Lissa's eyes. Her own eyes. ``I really should have sent you a se
 
 Lissa shrugged. ``Hey. That cuts both ways. I guess I was scared that you'd see \emph{this} and think\ldots{} Well, I dunno.''
 
-``I'm\ldots{} I'm just so glad you're still here. I wish we could have met --- \emph{properly} met --- in different circumstances.''
+``I'm\ldots{} I'm just so glad you're still here. I wish we could have met—\emph{properly} met—in different circumstances.''
 
 Lissa wrapped a paw around her Root Instance, tugging her closer. ``We're here now. No point in looking back, right? We've got each other, no matter what happens.''
 
 And so they sat, wolf and human, fork and root instance, together.
-
-\emph{\textbf{FIN.}}

marsh/stories/journal.tex

@@ -1,3 +1,7 @@
+\begin{center}
+  \footnotesize\noindent \emph{Note:} This story utilizes different fonts to represent different members of a plural system.
+\end{center}
+
 \noindent\textbf{May 12th, 2400}
 
 The door is pressed open and the lights are turned on with a soft click, below wooden planks bemoan the shuffling feat of Henrique and his slippers, his old jeans loose and baggy, the knitted sweater he wears worn like his brittle bones. He walks with his cane, tapping on the floor as he finds his seat, guided by his great Granddaughter Isa, who guides him with steady, thoughtfully slow, footing.
@@ -27,7 +31,7 @@ The next few moments were a blanket of misery, misery that mastered the old mans
 
 Today is my 17th birthday and as a gift my Grand mami got me this journal to practice my english writing in. My teacher told me my writing is pretty good since he started teaching me but needs work and my mami thought it would be a good idea to give me a book to practice in. He said I should focus on my punctuation mostly as I seem to forget to include that in my writing sometimes. He also said my spelling could do a little bit of work so I'll try and focus on that.
 
-Today was so fun after school, I took my bike home and my cousins, sisters and a few of our friends from the next farm over were waiting for me! I even saw aunt Corita, she managed to get the day off from the Ansible clinic, I hardly ever get to see her. We had a quick game in the backyard field , I think my sisters took it easy on me, there usually way more dexterous then I am! \emph{\textsc{(Eles fizeram isso, eu já vi eles chutarem você, mas no futebol! Haha.)}.} I can still play pretty good Fel!
+Today was so fun after school, I took my bike home and my cousins, sisters and a few of our friends from the next farm over were waiting for me! I even saw aunt Corita, she managed to get the day off from the Ansible clinic, I hardly ever get to see her. We had a quick game in the backyard field , I think my sisters took it easy on me, there usually way more dexterous then I am! \emph{\textsc{(Eles fizeram isso, eu já vi eles chutarem você, mas no futebol! Haha.)}} I can still play pretty good Fel!
 
 Anyway, after a few goals, my mami called us in for dinner! It was Fels and my favorite, homemade Acarajé and Picanha, and for dessert Grand mami made me a vanilla cake with blue icing!