Funeral

_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}}

ask/book.tex

@@ -79,13 +79,15 @@
   \tableofcontents*
 
   \mainmatter
-  \doublespacing
+  \onehalfspacing
 
   \input{content/art-of-activism}
   \input{content/bay-of-color}
+  \input{content/bizarro}
   \input{content/cake-and-all}
   \input{content/despecialized}
   \input{content/fraught-devotions}
+  \input{content/funeral}
   \input{content/furthest-out}
   \input{content/impermanence}
   \input{content/intraclade-dating}

ask/content/bizarro.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,17 @@
+\cleardoublepage
+\begin{quote}
+\itshape\Large
+To Dear and May Then My Name: Have you ever thought about a Bizarro Universe scenario where you trade places with Codrin and Ioan, respectively? I find myself struggling to imagine it.
+\end{quote}
+
+\subsection*{Dear, Also The Tree That Was Felled}
+
+There are, perhaps, two readings of this. If you mean Codrin and myself switching places, and you are wondering what it would be like for me to date an Odist as a non-Odist, I think I would find myself maddening, and I would have dropped myself years ago. It is perhaps uncomfortable to admit, but there is no small amount of self-loathing in me. I have spent my time in a relationship with another Odist --- my close cross-tree instance Serene --- and\ldots well. I love her dearly, but she puts rather a fine point on all of the things that I loathe in myself, sometimes.
+
+If, however, you mean me switching places with May Then My Name and being in a relationship with Ioan, then, my dear, you have no idea how eager I would be to corrupt that poor, innocent soul, especially as ey is now. The Ioan who became Codrin was of a very specific type, but this Ioan? The one that May Then My Name has tainted? Oh, how delicious that would be!
+
+\subsection*{May Then My Name Die With Me:}
+
+Similar to Dear, I shall answer each in turn. If you mean me switching places with Ioan as ey is now, then I do not think much would change. I have absolutely ruined em for a life alone, and I think that ey would feel quite out of sorts if I were not around, just as I feel quite out of sorts when ey is not around. That said, I cannot ignore what happens when I overflow. Ey does not like it when I dissolve into tears and ask em to leave me alone for days at a time. It is a thing I dislike about myself, but am hopeless before. I think that it would hurt me far more to experience it from the other side. I think that I would\ldots well. I think we would risk a feedback loop of tears, and there would be days afterwards when we would struggle.
+
+If you mean me switching with Dear\ldots well, I like Codrin plenty. I think ey is lovely in many of the same ways that Ioan is. That said, I do not think that ey is necessarily my type, especially as ey is now, having been ruined by Dear. Could I love em? Of course! I do love em. But could we be in a relationship? I do not think so.

ask/content/funeral.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,93 @@
+\cleardoublepage
+\begin{quote}
+\itshape\Large
+A personal question, if there is an Odist willing to answer it: Was there a funeral after Michelle quit?
+\end{quote}
+
+\cleardoublepage
+
+\subsection*{A Finger Pointing}
+
+\subsubsection*{The short answer:}
+
+No, there was not.
+
+\subsubsection*{The long answer:}
+
+\emph{Not as such.}
+
+She brought us all together to the field in which she first dreamt up our dandelions. She did so because she had intended to quit for some months after Qoheleth's death, and because it was crucial to her that she understand each of us in as much depth as one can hope to understand oneself.
+
+When she received our merges and, in nearly the same breath, quit under the gravity of one hundred selves and tens of thousands of lifetimes, many of us were stunned. Some did not expect that the merge would be the moment of death; others saw the writing on the walls; others, still, knew well what it meant to take on so much experience at once, knew well that even the savviest of us could not bear such weight.
+
+So there was the flattened grass where only moments ago she stood, there was the warm breeze that always entertains this sim, and there was the shock and despair of ninety-nine Odists rendered unwhole for the second time. Unwhole and, now, disconnected, disjointed.
+
+We are no strangers to grief, but neither are we exactly comfortable with it. Many of us still struggle to tolerate the mere sound of RJ's name. We often speak about em in euphemism, as if our own little \emph{HaShem}. Even after Sasha's \emph{Ode}, we keep eir nickname to ourselves, covet it as a cherished secret as if for it to be known would be to drive the final nail into eir coffin.
+
+We stumbled through our grief as one in that field, held one another, cried our tears of anguish, suffered our collective misery for what would be the last time we ever joined so completely. And then, in ones or twos, we gradually diminished. There were fewer and fewer of us in that field, and though my muse was among the first to go with a fork of mine, I remained with Slow Hours and The Only Constant. We three lingered with what remained of the other stanzas, lingered well into an evening that the sim did not perform for us.
+
+There were the outbursts of crying, of bickering, the softness of cooing and silence. There was the rhythm of \emph{Kaddish}, though those of us most experienced with such were already at synagogue; the ensuing laughter as some dozen of us stumbled through a prayer few of us had ever seriously practiced was terribly hysterical, and at once crucial to relieving us of that direness we felt.
+
+We had no body to bury, my dear, and all the time in the world to dedicate to our grief. So our funeral was then and it was there.
+
+\clearpage
+
+\subsection*{What Right Have I}
+
+\subsubsection*{The short answer:}
+
+No, there was not.
+
+\subsubsection*{Longer answer}
+
+\emph{Not as such.}
+
+When Michelle/Sasha summoned us to her field, I was not expecting that which I received.
+
+I was expecting that perhaps she would seek input from us.
+
+We had heard so little from her over the years. She sought out Rav From Whence and I at one point to discuss her inherited faith, what it had to say about suffering, what it had to say about grieving. We spoke of Job and his woes, his wish to call God to account. Why was it that he was caused to suffer so? What, also, did the interpretations of this text have to say about what it was that he went through?
+
+She summoned more from the third stanza, those of us who delved deep into spirituality. We brought before her Unknowable Spaces, who spoke about grief and the ways in which it interacts with the soul, the spirit, and the self. Unknowable Spaces brought with her a friend who had been a doctor, phys-side, who spoke to the ways in which suffering interacts with the body.
+
+When she spoke of heaven of hell, of paradise and eternal conscious torment, I cried. Many of us cried! She looked only tired. Unknowable spaces recited for her a quote from Rabi'a al-'Adiwiyya al-Qaysiyya:
+
+\begin{verse}
+O God! If I worship You for fear of Hell, burn me in Hell\\
+and if I worship You in hope of Paradise, exclude me from Paradise.\\
+But if I worship You for Your Own sake,\\
+grudge me not Your everlasting Beauty.
+\end{verse}
+
+I cried yet more and spoke of the ways in which the Jewish view of the afterlife changed over the millennia, how originally there was \emph{Sheol,} that place of darkness and rest and eternal sleep, and then, as the Jews collided with other cultures, this began to lean towards thoughts of paradise, and with that thoughts of some cruel inversion. I asked her to consider Qohelet --- the teacher, not he who was a part of her --- and his gentle admonition to consider the ways in which one strove as well as the ways in which one suffered in the face of so much rest to come: \emph{Whatever it is in your power to do, do with all your might. For there is no action, no reasoning, no learning, no wisdom in Sheol, where you are going.}
+
+From Whence said, ``Strive with an eye to the betterment of all, and consider that, if you are \emph{b'tzelem Elohim,} made in the image of God, that includes \emph{you,} my dear.''
+
+And so when she summoned us that awful day, I expected other than what I got.
+
+I was expecting that perhaps she had words to say about Qoheleth, about his rise and fall, about how it was that \emph{she} felt about his assassination. were it someone within the clade who had organized this --- and none had ever come forward --- then ought we not find a way to discuss paths forward?
+
+I was expecting perhaps, in some roundabout way, reconciliation. Her with her clade, the clade with itself, all of us with the world in which we lived.
+
+How naïve I am! How foolish I was to hold such hope!
+
+So when she asked us to merge down, when I began to understand what it was that she was doing, I wept and tore at my garments. I tried to keep it to myself, but in the end, I collapsed to the grass, curled into as tight a ball as I could, with my snout all but tucked into the ground as though I could shield myself from what I knew must be coming.
+
+Rav From Whence bade me look up just in time to see her disappear once and for all from existence, and we said ``\emph{Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam, dayan ha'emet,}'' the announcement of a death, and returned to our synagogue.
+
+There we fought, and bitterly, as to whether or not this occasioned a funeral. Rav From Whence argued for yes, for the funeral was for the people, not for the dead, and I argued for no, because the funeral was also for the dead, and she could not be, for we lived on. This discussion was old and tired, for we had debated this for nigh on a century. Was the quitting of a cladist a death or something else if the clade lived on? Did the manner of quitting matter? If they quit of despair, was that suicide? If they crashed? If CPV claimed them? It was our evergreen \emph{halakha} to argue, just\ldots never in so immediate terms.
+
+I stepped away and did not return for thirty days, preferring to sit in my half-\emph{Shloshim} while wandering, overflowing, believing now that she was dead, now that she was not, feeling now a sense of spiritual ecstasy, now a sense of abandonment. I asked a million billion trillion times why we suffered, why \emph{she} suffered --- and whether or not God replied, asked a million billion trillion times again ``Look, I am worthless. What can I say back to You?''
+
+When I returned, I asked Rav From Whence to give me some space from the topic. I said my \emph{kaddish} and always put off the topic of the funeral until she stopped bringing it up. After all, as Wakefield put it,
+
+\begin{verse}
+There are ways around being the go-to person\\
+even for ourselves\\
+even when the answer is clear\\
+clear like the holy water Gentiles would drink\\
+before they realized\\
+forgiveness is the release of all hope for a better past
+\end{verse}
+
+I rely on the words of others because I do not know. If there was a funeral, I did not attend, and if all that had once been her did not --- or did not even \emph{know} --- did it truly take place?''

ask/content/terribly-tragic.tex

@@ -25,3 +25,26 @@ There are the families we left behind, and if we are not careful, they are gone
 Why did Rareș not join his sibling when the years began to take their toll? What life did he live so worthy of death? Did he set a headstone for Ioan when ey uploaded to fund his education? Did he mourn when his sibling did not write him as frequently as he would have liked?
 
 It is all so terribly tragic, but I do \emph{not} pity them.
+
+\clearpage
+
+\subsection*{Dear The Wheat And Rye Under The Stars}
+
+\begin{verse}
+Of course it is strange to inhabit the Earth no longer,\\
+To follow no longer the customs so newly acquired,\\
+To invest no longer with future humanity\\
+Such promising things as roses,\\
+\ldots\\
+And being dead is full of the labor of catching up,\\
+As one gradually acquired a sense of eternity.—\\
+But the living always make the mistake of too sharp a distinction.\\
+\ldots\\
+In the end, they need us no longer, those taken in youth.\\
+One gradually weans oneself from the earthly\ldots\\
+\ldots{} But we,\\
+Who need such great mysteries, for whom out of grief\\
+So often comes blessed improvement—: \emph{could} we be without them?
+\end{verse}
+
+— Rainer Maria Rilke

ask/src/bizarro.md

@@ -0,0 +1,13 @@
+"To Dear and May Then My Name: Have you ever thought about a Bizarro Universe scenario where you trade places with Codrin and Ioan, respectively? I find myself struggling to imagine it."
+
+"**Dear, Also, The Tree That Was Felled:**
+
+There are, perhaps, two readings of this. If you mean Codrin and myself switching places, and you are wondering what it would be like for me to date an Odist as a non-Odist, I think I would find myself maddening, and I would have dropped myself years ago. It is perhaps uncomfortable to admit, but there is no small amount of self-loathing in me. I have spent my time in a relationship with another Odist — my close cross-tree instance Serene — and...well. I love her dearly, but she puts rather a fine point on all of the things that I loathe in myself, sometimes.
+
+If, however, you mean me switching places with May Then My Name and being in a relationship with Ioan, then, my dear, you have no idea how eager I would be to corrupt that poor, innocent soul, especially as ey is now. The Ioan who became Codrin was of a very specific type, but this Ioan? The one that May Then My Name has tainted? Oh, how delicious that would be!
+
+**May Then My Name Die With Me:**
+
+Similar to Dear, I shall answer each in turn. If you mean me switching places with Ioan as ey is now, then I do not think much would change. I have absolutely ruined em for a life alone, and I think that ey would feel quite out of sorts if I were not around, just as I feel quite out of sorts when ey is not around. That said, I cannot ignore what happens when I overflow. Ey does not like it when I dissolve into tears and ask em to leave me alone for days at a time. It is a thing I dislike about myself, but am hopeless before. I think that it would hurt me far more to experience it from the other side. I think that I would...well. I think we would risk a feedback loop of tears, and there would be days afterwards when we would struggle.
+
+If you mean me switching with Dear...well, I like Codrin plenty. I think ey is lovely in many of the same ways that Ioan is. That said, I do not think that ey is necessarily my type, especially as ey is now, having been ruined by Dear. Could I love em? Of course! I <em>do</em> love em. But could we be in a relationship? I do not think so.

ask/src/funeral.md

@@ -0,0 +1,83 @@
+# A personal question, if there is an Odist willing to answer it: Was there a funeral after Michelle quit?
+
+## A Finger Pointing
+
+### The short answer:
+
+No, there was not.
+
+### The long answer:
+
+_Not as such._
+
+She brought us all together to the field in which she first dreamt up our dandelions. She did so because she had intended to quit for some months after Qoheleth's death, and because it was crucial to her that she understand each of us in as much depth as one can hope to understand oneself.
+
+When she received our merges and, in nearly the same breath, quit under the gravity of one hundred selves and tens of thousands of lifetimes, many of us were stunned. Some did not expect that the merge would be the moment of death; others saw the writing on the walls; others, still, knew well what it meant to take on so much experience at once, knew well that even the savviest of us could not bear such weight.
+
+So there was the flattened grass where only moments ago she stood, there was the warm breeze that always entertains this sim, and there was the shock and despair of ninety-nine Odists rendered unwhole for the second time. Unwhole and, now, disconnected, disjointed.
+
+We are no strangers to grief, but neither are we exactly comfortable with it. Many of us still struggle to tolerate the mere sound of RJ's name. We often speak about em in euphemism, as if our own little _HaShem_. Even after Sasha's _Ode_, we keep eir nickname to ourselves, covet it as a cherished secret as if for it to be known would be to drive the final nail into eir coffin.
+
+We stumbled through our grief as one in that field, held one another, cried our tears of anguish, suffered our collective misery for what would be the last time we ever joined so completely. And then, in ones or twos, we gradually diminished. There were fewer and fewer of us in that field, and though my muse was among the first to go with a fork of mine, I remained with Slow Hours and The Only Constant. We three lingered with what remained of the other stanzas, lingered well into an evening that the sim did not perform for us.
+
+There were the outbursts of crying, of bickering, the softness of cooing and silence. There was the rhythm of _Kaddish_, though those of us most experienced with such were already at synagogue; the ensuing laughter as some dozen of us stumbled through a prayer few of us had ever seriously practiced was terribly hysterical, and at once crucial to relieving us of that direness we felt.
+
+We had no body to bury, my dear, and all the time in the world to dedicate to our grief. So our funeral was then and it was there.
+
+-----
+
+## What Right Have I</span>
+
+### The short answer:
+
+No, there was not.
+
+### Longer answer
+
+_Not as such._
+
+When Michelle/Sasha summoned us to her field, I was not expecting that which I received. 
+
+I was expecting that perhaps she would seek input from us. 
+
+We had heard so little from her over the years. She sought out Rav From Whence and I at one point to discuss her inherited faith, what it had to say about suffering, what it had to say about grieving. We spoke of Job and his woes, his wish to call God to account. Why was it that he was caused to suffer so? What, also, did the interpretations of this text have to say about what it was that he went through? 
+
+She summoned more from the third stanza, those of us who delved deep into spirituality. We brought before her Unknowable Spaces, who spoke about grief and the ways in which it interacts with the soul, the spirit, and the self. Unknowable Spaces brought with her a friend who had been a doctor, phys-side, who spoke to the ways in which suffering interacts with the body.
+
+When she spoke of heaven of hell, of paradise and eternal conscious torment, I cried. Many of us cried! She looked only tired. Unknowable spaces recited for her a quote from Rabi'a al-'Adiwiyya al-Qaysiyya:
+
+> O God! If I worship You for fear of Hell, burn me in Hell  
+> and if I worship You in hope of Paradise, exclude me from Paradise.  
+> But if I worship You for Your Own sake,  
+> grudge me not Your everlasting Beauty.
+
+I cried yet more and spoke of the ways in which the Jewish view of the afterlife changed over the millennia, how originally there was *Sheol,* that place of darkness and rest and eternal sleep, and then, as the Jews collided with other cultures, this began to lean towards thoughts of paradise, and with that thoughts of some cruel inversion. I asked her to consider Qohelet — the teacher, not he who was a part of her — and his gentle admonition to consider the ways in which one strove as well as the ways in which one suffered in the face of so much rest to come: *Whatever it is in your power to do, do with all your might. For there is no action, no reasoning, no learning, no wisdom in Sheol, where you are going.*
+
+From Whence said, "Strive with an eye to the betterment of all, and consider that, if you are *b'tzelem Elohim,* made in the image of God, that includes *you,* my dear."
+
+And so when she summoned us that awful day, I expected other than what I got.
+
+I was expecting that perhaps she had words to say about Qoheleth, about his rise and fall, about how it was that *she* felt about his assassination. were it someone within the clade who had organized this — and none had ever come forward — then ought we not find a way to discuss paths forward?
+
+I was expecting perhaps, in some roundabout way, reconciliation. Her with her clade, the clade with itself, all of us with the world in which we lived.
+
+How naïve I am! How foolish I was to hold such hope!
+
+So when she asked us to merge down, when I began to understand what it was that she was doing, I wept and tore at my garments. I tried to keep it to myself, but in the end, I collapsed to the grass, curled into as tight a ball as I could, with my snout all but tucked into the ground as though I could shield myself from what I knew must be coming.
+
+Rav From Whence bade me look up just in time to see her disappear once and for all from existence, and we said "*Baruch atah Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha'olam, dayan ha-emet,*" the announcement of a death, and returned to our synagogue.
+
+There we fought, and bitterly, as to whether or not this occasioned a funeral. Rav From Whence argued for yes, for the funeral was for the people, not for the dead, and I argued for no, because the funeral was also for the dead, and she could not be, for we lived on. This discussion was old and tired, for we had debated this for nigh on a century. Was the quitting of a cladist a death or something else if the clade lived on? Did the manner of quitting matter? If they quit of despair, was that suicide? If they crashed? If CPV claimed them? It was our evergreen *halakha* to argue, just...never in so immediate terms.
+
+I stepped away and did not return for thirty days, preferring to sit in my half-*Shloshim* while wandering, overflowing, believing now that she was dead, now that she was not, feeling now a sense of spiritual ecstasy, now a sense of abandonment. I asked a million billion trillion times why we suffered, why *she* suffered — and whether or not God replied, asked a million billion trillion times again "Look, I am worthless. What can I say back to You?"
+
+When I returned, I asked Rav From Whence to give me some space from the topic. I said my *kaddish* and always put off the topic of the funeral until she stopped bringing it up. After all, as Wakefield put it,
+
+> There are ways around being the go-to person  
+> even for ourselves  
+> even when the answer is clear  
+> clear like the holy water Gentiles would drink  
+> before they realized  
+> forgiveness is the release of all hope for a better past
+
+I rely on the words of others because I do not know. If there was a funeral, I did not attend, and if all that had once been her did not — or did not even *know* — did it truly take place?"

ask/src/shapes.md

@@ -0,0 +1,4 @@
+"motes: some odists have been known to make rather extensive modifications to their appearance and shapes, and you're interested in play. aside from your usual shapes (big, little, etc) do you like to toy around with appearance and shape as a form of play?"
+null
+null
+"Oh oh oh! Yes! I like being a big frickin' werewolf! And then I go chase all of my friends and they find all the small places to hide and I cannot tag them. Sometimes I will be an otter for fun and because I can be all long and slinky. I have tried lots, though, over the years."

ebooks/Madison Rye Progress, Samantha Yule Fireheart, Krzysztof _Tomash_ Drewniak/Idumea/Idumea - Madison Rye Progress, Samantha Yule Fireheart, Krzysztof _Tomash_ Drewniak.opf

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         <dc:subject>Skunks</dc:subject>
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ebooks/Progress, Madison Rye/Marsh/Marsh - Madison Rye Progress.opf

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ebooks/Rob MacWolf, Nathan _Domus Vocis_ Hopp, Madison Scott-Clary, Michael Miele, Alexandria Christina Leal, Thomas _Faux_ Steele, Evan Drake, J.S. Hawthorne, Kergiby, Joel Kreissman/Clade — A Post-Self Anthology/Clade — A Post-Self Anthology - Rob MacWolf, Nathan _Domus Vocis_ Hopp, Madison Scott-Clary, Michael Miele, Alexandria Christina Leal, Thomas _Faux_ Steele, Evan Drake, J.S. Hawthorne, Kergiby, Joel Kreissman.opf

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+        <meta name="calibre:timestamp" content="2023-07-04T18:55:13+00:00"/>
+        <meta name="calibre:title_sort" content="Clade — A Post-Self Anthology"/>
+        <meta name="calibre:user_metadata:#mm_annotations" content="{&quot;table&quot;: &quot;custom_column_1&quot;, &quot;column&quot;: &quot;value&quot;, &quot;datatype&quot;: &quot;comments&quot;, &quot;is_multiple&quot;: null, &quot;kind&quot;: &quot;field&quot;, &quot;name&quot;: &quot;Annotations&quot;, &quot;search_terms&quot;: [&quot;#mm_annotations&quot;], &quot;label&quot;: &quot;mm_annotations&quot;, &quot;colnum&quot;: 1, &quot;display&quot;: {}, &quot;is_custom&quot;: true, &quot;is_category&quot;: false, &quot;link_column&quot;: &quot;value&quot;, &quot;category_sort&quot;: &quot;value&quot;, &quot;is_csp&quot;: false, &quot;is_editable&quot;: true, &quot;rec_index&quot;: 22, &quot;#value#&quot;: null, &quot;#extra#&quot;: null, &quot;is_multiple2&quot;: {}}"/>
+    </metadata>
+    <guide>
+        <reference type="cover" title="Cover" href="Clade — A Post-Self Anthology - Rob MacWolf, Nathan _Domus Vocis_ Hopp, Madison Scott-Clary, Michael Miele, Alexandria Christina Leal, Thomas _Faux_ Steele, Evan Drake, J.S. Hawthorne, Kergiby, Joel Kreissman.jpg"/>
+    </guide>
+</package>

idumea/book.tex

@@ -25,6 +25,12 @@
   \vspace{2cm}
   \vfill
 }
+\makeatletter
+\newcommand*{\shifttext}[2]{%
+  \settowidth{\@tempdima}{#2}%
+  \makebox[\@tempdima]{\hspace*{#1}#2}%
+}
+\makeatother
 
 \begin{document}
   \frontmatter
@@ -79,7 +85,7 @@
 
   \null
   \vfill
-  \noindent\textbf{Note:} this book 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 may all be found \emph{post-self.ink} as paperbacks, ebooks, and free to read in the browser.
+  \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}
   
@@ -91,6 +97,12 @@
 
   \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
 
@@ -139,6 +151,12 @@
 
   \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
@@ -213,15 +231,13 @@
 
   \null
   \vfill
-  \begin{verse}
-People of Orphalese, \\
-\vin beauty is life when life unveils her holy face.\\
-\vin But you are life and you are the veil.\\
-\vin Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror.\\
-\vin But you are eternity and you are the mirror.
+  \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{verse}
+\end{quote}
 
 %  And am I born to die?\\
 %  To lay this body down!\\
@@ -243,27 +259,28 @@ People of Orphalese, \\
   \cleardoublepage
   \pagestyle{ourbook}
   %\doublespacing
-  
+
   \Char{End Of Endings — 2403\par ×\par Rye — 2409}
   \markboth{Idumea}{Madison Rye Progress}
   
-  \chapter*{}
+  \addcontentsline{toc}{part}{Idumea}
+  \chapter*{×}
   \input{content/001}
-  \secdiv
+  \chapter*{× ×}
   \input{content/002}
-  \secdiv
+  \chapter*{×\\× ×}
   \input{content/003}
-  \secdiv
+  \chapter*{× ×\\× ×}
   \input{content/004}
-  \secdiv
+  \chapter*{×  ×\\×\\×  ×}
   \input{content/005}
-  \secdiv
+  \chapter*{× × ×\\× × ×}
   \input{content/006}
-  \secdiv
+  \chapter*{× ×\\× × ×\\× ×}
   \input{content/007}
-  \secdiv
+  \chapter*{× × ×\\× × ×\\× ×}
   \input{content/008}
-  \secdiv
+  \chapter*{× × ×\\× × ×\\× × ×}
   \input{content/009} \input{graphomania}\normalfont
 
   \newpage
@@ -274,7 +291,7 @@ People of Orphalese, \\
   \vfill
   
   \begin{center}
-  \Huge ×\label{x}
+  \noindent\Huge ×\label{x}
   \end{center}
 
   \vfill
@@ -282,6 +299,9 @@ People of Orphalese, \\
   \cleardoublepage
   
   \backmatter
+  \pagestyle{plain}
+
+  %\singlespacing
 
   \Char{Afterword}
 

idumea/content/001.tex

@@ -4,7 +4,7 @@ Once upon a time there was--\label{pinocchio}
 
 No, children, you are mistaken. Once upon a time, there was a woman. She was not a fine woman, not a prize to adorn your arm or to set beside you at the head of a grand table, but a simple woman—the kind we pass on the street and imagine some plain home life for. She has a house, one might think. There are floors and walls and windows, there are tables and chairs and sofas and beds. There is a shower and a claw-footed bathtub. There is a creaky step—the eighth—that she always swears she will fix.
 
-We must imagine such a woman happy. We must imagine that she has friends and that she goes and drinks okay wine or maybe strange cocktails with them at the most absurd bars. We must imagine that she comes home, wobbling slightly with each step, with some other simple woman on her arm. We must imagine sharing their kisses, being happy together.
+We must imagine such a woman happy. We must imagine that she has friends and that she goes and drinks okay wine or maybe strange cocktails with them at the most absurd bars. We must imagine that she comes home, wobbling slightly with each step, with some other simple woman on her arm. We must imagine them sharing their kisses, being happy together.
 
 We must imagine these things because they are not true.
 
@@ -14,15 +14,15 @@ But that was three hundred years ago.
 
 \secdiv
 
-The Woman wanders the world some few times a month, stepping out into unknown nowheres and known somewheres to be seen, to be perceived as still existing. I do not know why, but it is important to her that someone witness her existing. It is a ritual she follows around like a little puppy: she will not know what will happen when she first does it properly, but she hopes it will be something wonderful.
+The Woman wanders the world some few times a month, stepping out into unknown nowheres and known somewheres to be seen, to be perceived as still existing. I do not know why, but it is important to her that someone witness her existing. It is a striving, an aiming for perfection, a ritual she follows around like a little puppy: she will not know what will happen when she first does it properly, but she hopes it will be something wonderful.
 
 The Woman has many rituals.
 
-She has rituals for eating food, for feeding the vessel in which she makes her home. There is no order in which she properly consumes food, she may consume it in any order, but there is an order in which she must appreciate food. You must understand: she must do this for everything she takes into her body. She must look at it before she touches it, must touch it before she smells it, must smell it before she eats it, and before all of these she must say a prayer.
+She has rituals for eating food, for feeding the vessel in which she makes her home. There is no order in which she properly consumes food, she may consume it in any order, but there is an order in which she must appreciate food. You must understand: she has to do this for everything she takes into her body. She must look at it before she touches it, must touch it before she smells it, must smell it before she eats it, and before all of these she must say a prayer.
 
 She has rituals for getting dressed, for clothing the form with which the world sees her. She must choose a garment that fits her body and one that fits her mood. You must understand: every time she gets dressed, there is a moment of scrying into her deepest self and estimating how it is that she feels that day. And should her mood change, should those feelings shift, she will find her clothing itchy and uncomfortable, and if her form becomes not what it once was, her clothing will become uncomfortably tight or perhaps she will disappear down into the folds of fabric.
 
-She has rituals for entering a room, for passing through a door. She must touch the door frame beside her shoulder, must brush her fingers against the wood or stone or metal or some more abstract substance. You must understand: she has to do this for every door she walks through, and for this reason, there is a door in the house where she lives that was built by a friend of Her Friend that leads directly out into a city. She opens the closet door and steps out onto a concrete sidewalk lined with trees and passers by, where the sun shines bright and the air burns cold in her nostrils and the dry leaves skitter anxiously about her feet. As she steps out, she can brush her hand to the door jamb.
+She has rituals for entering a room, for passing through a door. She must touch the door frame beside her shoulder, must brush her fingers against the wood or stone or metal or some more abstract substance. You must understand: she has to do this for every door she walks through, and for this reason, there is a door in the house where she lives that was built by a friend of Her Friend that leads directly out into a city. She opens the closet door and steps out onto a concrete sidewalk lined with trees and passers-by, where the sun shines bright and the air burns cold in her nostrils and the dry leaves skitter anxiously about her feet. As she steps out, she can brush her hand to the door jamb.
 
 I do not know where these rituals come from, and perhaps some of my readers will immediately say, ``OCD? Does The Woman have obsessive compulsive disorder?''
 
@@ -88,7 +88,7 @@ And after that, they would go to the rest of the party at the home of the tenth
 
 I think you would like to see these parties, friends. I think that they would not be quite as you would expect, of course. They are not the kinds of birthday parties that you or I might have. Where we might have cakes and singing and the blowing out of candles, they would gather together over simple foods—so many from the tenth stanza had such sensitive tastes, and it was so easy to make sure that everyone could eat everything!—and often they would simply sit silent. They would sit there, quiet, but present in each other's company.
 
-They would not seem to be parties like you and I have because this was not all that different from what might happen once or twice a month at the house in which the tenth stanza all lived. While each lived their own lives, occasionally, their schedules would coincide and they would all sit down together at the giant oak table together and eat, mostly in silence.
+They would not seem to be parties like you and I have perhaps because this was not all that different from what might happen once or twice a month at the house in which the tenth stanza all lived. While each lived their own lives, occasionally, their schedules would coincide and they would all sit down together at the giant oak table together and eat, mostly in silence.
 
 Some of them shared rooms, you see, but mostly, they kept to themselves. They lived together in that big Gothic house plopped right down in the middle of a prairie of green grass and yellow dandelions, out where the stoop stepped down directly into the field, but I say `lived together' in a very mechanical sense. They never shared meals intentionally, nor even spoke all that often to each other. It is just that, sometimes, they would all find themselves at table at the same time!
 

idumea/content/002.tex

@@ -2,15 +2,15 @@ The Woman decided to go walking one day. Perhaps she was driven by restlessness.
 
 Either way, she was feeling good and she was feeling stable and she was feeling feline, so she found herself a nice set of slacks to wear over her legs, ones that looped up over the base of her tail in such a way that the same would be just as possible with a skunk's tail, and yet which would not fall down for those moments when she did not have a tail.
 
-She found herself a nice shirt that felt good on the fur and which would not look too weird if she poofed out into a skunk. It was not her favorite shirt, I am sure, otherwise maybe she would wear it every day, but it was good enough. It had the word `fiend' scribbled across it in angular, glitchy graffiti, and The Woman is absolutely allowed to feel like a fiend some days.
+She found herself a nice shirt that felt good on the fur and which would not look too weird if she poofed out into a skunk. It was not her favorite shirt, I am sure, otherwise maybe she would wear it every day, but she liked it well enough. It had the word `fiend' scribbled across it in angular, glitchy graffiti, and The Woman is absolutely allowed to feel like a fiend some days.
 
-Thus clothed, The Woman stood for a while in front of the mirror and admired herself. She felt good. She felt good, reader! It was not often that she felt more than just okay. Because even with all that I wrote about before, her life was not bad. It was an okay life. She liked this life in her own way. Her thoughts on unbecoming were not thoughts on suicide, I do not think.
+Thus gussied, The Woman stood for a while in front of the mirror and admired herself. She felt good. She felt good, reader! It was not often that she felt more than just okay. Because even with all that I wrote about before, her life was not bad. It was an okay life. She liked this life in her own way. Her thoughts on unbecoming were not thoughts on suicide, I do not think.
 
 She stood before the mirror and primped for a moment, adjusting the way her shirt sat and fluffing out her slacks to see how they might fit with a thicker coat. She combed her claws through her short fur to straighten out some mussed-up spots and ensured that her whiskers were all neat and in those rows that cats have that she always found fascinating.
 
 The trip to the city was as it ever was. She said to herself a little prayer and opened the door to her closet. Taking a deep breath, she stepped through, and as she did so, she brushed her fingertips against the jamb as ever, against some imagined \emph{mezuzah,} and today it felt right enough that she stepped lively out onto the city streets, out where the leaves skittered anxiously around her footpaws in the faint February breeze.
 
-Stuffing her paws into her pockets, she made her way down the street where her entrance was located to the main drag. The city was on the small end—more large town than full on city—and so it was still the type of place to have a main drag, a street built for cars that it does not actually have, with wide sidewalks paved in brick and a trolley that ran down the middle.
+Stuffing her paws into her pockets, she made her way down the street on which her entrance was located to the main drag. The city was on the small end—more large town than full on city—and so it was still the type of place to have a main drag, a street built for cars that it does not actually have, with wide sidewalks paved in brick and a trolley that ran down the middle.
 
 The Woman waited for the next trolley car to come and stepped aboard, tucking her tail down and around her leg as she held onto one of the railings—she never sat, and never could tell you why—to ride it for three stops. This was part of the ritual. Even when the car was busy and she was not feeling so good, there was a part of her that was happy that she got to stand on this trolley and hold onto this railing and feel this rattle-buzz of the wheels rolling along the track through her feet or paws. It was not even particularly pleasant for her, I think, but it \emph{was} fulfilling.
 
@@ -26,7 +26,7 @@ The Woman loved a good mocha—even I love a good mocha!—and so she was plenty
 
 That day, The Woman was here because Her Friend had asked to meet up.
 
-This was not how this usually went, you understand. Usually, The Woman was upset and asked for Her Friend to visit her, or perhaps she was out anyway and simply desired company on this errand or that, a friend for dinner or coffee or a walk along the shops to peruse the latest trends in fashion or oneirotecture or sensework. It had ever been the case that The Woman contacted Her Friend, and not the other way around.
+This was not how this usually went, you understand. Usually, The Woman was upset and asked for Her Friend to visit her, or perhaps she was out anyway and simply desired company on this errand or that, a friend for dinner or coffee or a walk along the shops to peruse the latest trends in fashion or oneirotecture or sensework. It was so often the case that The Woman contacted Her Friend, and not the other way around.
 
 Her Friend was always so stable, always so ready to speak and so ready to listen. Ey was the one who had long ago gotten in touch with her, with the whole of the tenth stanza, and started to talk to them and listen to what they had to say. Not the only one, no, but it was important to The Woman that Her Friend had sought her out, had cared enough to seek her out.
 
@@ -54,7 +54,7 @@ Her Friend leaned forward, resting eir arms on the edge of the table. ``Well, I
 
 She laughed. ``Of course, my dear. You are my best.''
 
-Her Friend's smile grew more earnest. ``Thank you. That feels better to hear than I expected.''
+Her Friend's smile grew yet more earnest. ``Thank you. That feels better to hear than I expected.''
 
 ``So, tell me of your moods, then. Tell me why you were uncomfortable and felt the need to speak quietly.''
 
@@ -90,7 +90,7 @@ Her Friend hesitated. ``Yes,'' ey said carefully. ``I said something to In Dream
 
 The Woman's breath caught in her throat.
 
-When I tell you that breath is important even sys-side, you must understand all of the different roles that it plays. We are built to breathe, you and I, and so is everyone else. We can turn that off, sure, but the vast majority of cladists find such uncomfortable. Not Breathing still feels like holding one's breath, yes? Even without the rising CO2 levels in our blood—blood that we must only imagine that we have—it is uncomfortable to feel like one is holding one's breath for too long.
+When I tell you that breath is important even sys-side, you must understand all of the different roles that it plays. We are built to breathe, you and I, and so is everyone else. We can turn that off, sure, but the vast majority of cladists find such uncomfortable. Not breathing still feels like holding one's breath, yes? Even without the rising CO\textsubscript{2} levels in our blood—blood that we must only imagine that we have—it is uncomfortable to feel like one is holding one's breath for too long.
 
 We use breath for speaking, and even though I am not speaking to you right now, I am still breathing. I still feel the warmth of my breath against my paw as it brushes across the page with each line of text. We use breath for gasping, for sighing, for even snoring!
 
@@ -102,7 +102,7 @@ The tenth had left two empty chairs and two full plates at meals until three yea
 
 Now they left three.
 
-Her Friend, either knowing or seeing this, averted eir eyes, casting eir gaze instead out to the street. ``I am sorry, my dear. I was indeed feeling grief and loss over Should We Forget. No Longer Myself as well, yes, and Beckoning and more, but the one I knew best was Should We Forget. I am sorry.''
+Her Friend, either knowing or seeing this, averted eir eyes, casting eir gaze instead out to the street. ``I am sorry, my dear. I was indeed feeling grief and loss over Should We Forget. No Longer Myself as well, yes, and Beckoning and Hammersmith and more, but the one I knew best was Should We Forget. I am sorry.''
 
 The Woman let her breath out most carefully, not letting it shake, not letting her lip quiver. ``I understand, yes. You knew her as well.''
 
@@ -110,11 +110,11 @@ The Woman let her breath out most carefully, not letting it shake, not letting h
 
 She bowed. ``I would appreciate that, yes.''
 
-``Of course, my dear,'' Her Friend said, smiling, nodding eir acknowledgement. ``The fallout of this conversation with In Dreams was that she told me that perhaps I ought to schedule a session, either with her or In Memory, or, failing that, someone outside the clade.''
+``Of course,'' Her Friend said, smiling, nodding eir acknowledgement. ``The fallout of this conversation with In Dreams was that she told me that perhaps I ought to schedule a session, either with her or In Memory, or, failing that, someone outside the clade.''
 
 ``Is that what you wound up doing?''
 
-Ey shook eir head. ``I did not need that, my dear. I did not need to be told to go to therapy. I did not want to schedule an appointment.'' Ey finally took a sip of eir mocha, but this seemed to be less about the coffee than an opportunity to gather eir wits. ``I just wanted a friend, honestly. I just wanted a hug—no, I understand, perhaps not your thing, but I must be earnest, yes? Instead, I got told to find a way to \emph{fix} this. Fix grief. Fix a very real pain.''
+Ey shook eir head. ``I did not need that, my dear. I did not need to be told to go to therapy. I did not want to schedule an appointment.'' Ey finally took a sip of eir mocha, but this seemed to be less about the coffee than an opportunity to gather eir thoughts. ``I just wanted a friend, honestly. I just wanted a hug—no, I understand, perhaps not your thing, but I must be earnest, yes? Instead, I got told to find a way to \emph{fix} this. Fix grief. Fix a very real pain.''
 
 The Woman's features softened and, steeling herself for the touch, she reached across the table to pat the back of Her Friend's paw. ``I understand, No Hesitation. Would that I could offer more. I am happy to be a friend, though; I have no interest in telling you to go to therapy.''
 
@@ -138,7 +138,7 @@ The Woman shrugged.
 
 ``I see,'' she said, buying herself a moment to think by sipping her mocha. Ah, but she was a cat, yes? A panther? Perhaps you can imagine this with lapping tongue, the way a cat's tongue curls back and scoops up drink, drawing it up into their mouth. Or perhaps she is the type who has leaned into another aesthetic, the type who can chew with her mouth closed. Idle distractions, even for your humble narrator. ``Then yes, there is joy in it. There is joy in those memories, is there not? One takes a moment of stillness\ldots{}''
 
-After a long few seconds, Her Friend tilted eir head. ``Yes?''
+After a long few seconds of silence, Her Friend tilted eir head. ``Yes?''
 
 ``Ah, a fleeting thought. One takes a moment of stillness and parks in that quiet joy, even if it is one of separation.''
 
@@ -160,13 +160,13 @@ The Woman rode the high of lovely friendship for days after that coffee date. Fo
 
 Whenever The Woman felt this way, she would wander around the house and clean. She would take on extra cooking duties and make extra desserts for her cocladists and their friends. She would stay in one form for far longer than was her usual, and remained now a panther. She would go for walks around the field, treating the house itself as a signpost at the center of widening circles. She would imagine that those circles might some day spread out across the entire world, never mind the varied infinities housed within the field itself. It was a thing to which she could give herself as she asked her high-minded questions: am I a falcon, a storm, or a great song?\label{rilke-circles}
 
-These words of Rilke's would dance unblushing through her mind, linking arms on one side with the words of Dickinson which ever twined around those of her clade—\emph{If I should die, And you should live, And time should gurgle on, And morn should beam, And noon should burn, As it has usual done\ldots{}}—and on the other with the lingering lines of the Ode that made up the names of her clade. ``I remember the rattle of dry grass,'' she would explain to the bees as they buzzed in friendship around her ankles. ``I remember the names of all things and forget them only when I wake.''
+These words of Rilke's would dance unblushing\label{darius} through her mind, linking arms on one side with the words of Dickinson which ever twined around those of her clade—\emph{If I should die, And you should live, And time should gurgle on, And morn should beam, And noon should burn, As it has usual done\ldots{}}—and on the other with the lingering lines of the Ode that made up the names of her clade. ``I remember the rattle of dry grass,'' she would explain to the bees as they buzzed in friendship around her ankles. ``I remember the names of all things and forget them only when I wake.''
 
 And so she would cook her meals and walk in widening circles around this primordial tower that was her home, perhaps circling around God, though she did not care one way or the other if there was that of God in everything.
 
 These were her joys to go along with the needs of ritual, of brushing her fingers along imagined \emph{mezuzot.} To walk was her ritual, to spiral outward from her home in the warmth of sunlight and the dance of bees and the tickling of dandelions against her ankles was to cast that ritual in the light of pleasure.
 
-I have never been quite so fond of walking, myself, kind readers. There is meditation in it, I am told. I am told there is the simple pleasure of the one-foot-in-front-of-the-other-ness of it. But friends, I am tired most of the time. I am old and I am tired and my pleasure lies in stillness and quiet. I love my mochas and I love sitting down before the page with pen in paw to put to paper, and I love bathing in story.
+I have never been quite so fond of walking, myself, kind readers. There is meditation in it, I am told. I am told there is the simple pleasure of the one-foot-in-front-of-the-other-ness of it. But friends, I am tired most of the time. I am old and I am tired and my pleasure lies in stillness and quiet. I love my mochas and I love sitting down before the page with pen in paw to put to paper and I love bathing in story.
 
 I say so often that stepping away from such a task is still writing. When I sit on the patio in front of our little bundle of townhouses and look out at the shared lawn, or when I step—\emph{stepped,} for it is no longer here—out to the shortgrass prairie of my cocladist, to sit beside a cairn of stones or share a meal, that is still writing! Your narrator has written these words, this story, a hundred, a thousand times within her head. That is my joy, and graphomania my compulsion.
 
@@ -174,4 +174,4 @@ When The Woman overflows, she becomes ever more herself. She is—my attentive r
 
 My astute readers will surely have picked up by now that I am riding that edge here, in these words.
 
-But, ah! This story is not about me. I am not quite overflowing yet, and The Woman most certainly is not. She is reveling in the warmth of sunlight and the dance of bees and the tickling of dandelions against her ankles and the purringly soft touch of friendship.
+But, ah–! This story is not about me. I am not quite overflowing yet, and The Woman most certainly is not. She is reveling in the warmth of sunlight and the dance of bees and the tickling of dandelions against her ankles and the purringly soft touch of friendship.

idumea/content/003.tex

@@ -4,11 +4,11 @@ The Woman did all that she could to hang onto joy whenever it slipped into her l
 
 But even like me with my little tasty baked treats, The Woman's joy is parceled out bit by bit to herself and her cocladists and, just like my little plates of carrot cake—I \emph{do} love a good carrot cake!—there is never an infinite amount, much as she might wish, nor, it always seems, quite enough.
 
-She hung onto joy and baked her goodies and went for her walks and awaited, with some trepidation, the regularly scheduled therapy, because I think she knew that, being confronted with recounting emotions of the past or discussing emotions to come, her grasp on joy would be tested. Once every two weeks, unless she was overflowing, unless she was in pain, unless she simply could not bring herself to go, The Woman had an appointment for therapy, and she knew there was good to be had in it, for it had proven its use time and again over the years, and yet it was a time for threshing, for harrowing. It was a time for throwing herself at the Work at one level of remove and watching the chaff fall away and the fruits of her labor lay exposed. It was a time for dragging the implements of tools dialectical and behaviors cognitive through the dirt of her to break up into clods her varied neuroses.
+She hung onto joy and baked her goodies and went for her walks and awaited, with some trepidation, her regularly scheduled therapy, because I think she knew that, being confronted with recounting emotions of the past or discussing emotions to come, her grasp on joy would be tested. Once every two weeks, unless she was overflowing, unless she was in pain, unless she simply could not bring herself to go, The Woman had an appointment for therapy, and she knew there was good to be had in it, for it had proven its use time and again over the years, and yet it was a time for threshing, for harrowing. It was a time for throwing herself at the Work at one level of remove and watching the chaff fall away and the fruits of her labor lay exposed. It was a time for dragging the implements of tools dialectical and behaviors cognitive through the dirt of her to break up into clods her varied neuroses.
 
 But as it goes, as it always goes, the morsels of joy meted gladly out soon began to run dry and the sense of happiness that she felt waned, and those truly \emph{good} days began to fade once more into merely okay.
 
-It was the day of her appointment that The Woman sat up in her bed, bleary-eyed, and looked around her, around her plain and simple room with her plain and simple sheets and plain and simple clothes folded neatly atop a plain and simple chair, ready for wear, and at last sighed, wondering, \emph{Where is it that my joy has gone? Where has it gone?}
+It was the day of her appointment that The Woman sat up in her bed, bleary-eyed, and looked around her, around her plain and simple room with her plain and simple sheets and plain and simple clothes folded neatly atop a plain and simple chair, ready for wear, and at last sighed, wondering, \emph{Where is it that my joy has gone? Where has it gone?}\label{simmons}
 
 Today was therapy, and her joy was gone.
 
@@ -18,13 +18,13 @@ In fact, I would say that there was perhaps even a sort of protectiveness. I thi
 
 And so it was that The Woman, today a human, today, as ever, dressed comfortably, made herself a peanut butter and banana sandwich with the crusts cut off and poured herself a glass of soy milk and walked out into the field outside her house. She had to balance her sandwich atop her drink in order to complete the ritual of passing through the front door, but she had done this countless times before.
 
-The table and chairs sat nearly a mile out from the tenth stanza's house, sprouting senselessly from the grass as easy and carefree as yet more dandelions. A simple square table with two chairs set before adjacent sides so that she need not look Her Therapist in the eye, so that they might each stare out into some similar distance, so that they may feel companionship, though The Woman never could explain how that worked.
+The table and chairs sat nearly a mile out from the tenth stanza's house, sprouting senselessly from the grass as easy and carefree as yet more dandelions. A simple square table with two chairs set before adjacent sides so that she need not look Her Therapist in the eye if she did not want to, so that they might each stare out into some similar distance, so that they may feel companionship, though The Woman never could explain how that worked.
 
-And so The Woman, today a human, walked the mile to the table and sat down her glass of soy milk and began to eat her sandwich. When, at last, there were only two bites left and the glass was half empty, she sent a delicate ping to Her Therapist, who appeared beside the table, paws folded and kind smile on her face. The visage of a skunk lasted no longer than a second before, with a rapid fork, a human stood before her—for Her Therapist endeavored always to mirror her species lest she influence The Woman's own, though she leaned far harder into gender-play, and one would be hard pressed to not also see her as a young man—and bowed, then pulled out the chair beside her and sat down.
+And so The Woman, today a human, walked the mile to the table and sat down with her glass of soy milk and began to eat her sandwich. When, at last, there were only two bites left and the glass was half empty, she sent a delicate ping to Her Therapist, who appeared beside the table, paws folded and kind smile on her face. The visage of a skunk lasted no longer than a second before, with a rapid fork, a human stood before her—for Her Therapist endeavored always to mirror her species lest she influence The Woman's own, though she leaned far harder into gender-play, and one would be hard pressed to not also see her as a young man—and bowed, then pulled out the chair beside her and sat down.
 
 ``I will be finished in a moment, Ever Dream,'' The Woman said just as she did every session. ``Just a few bites left.''
 
-``Of course, End Of Endings,'' Her Therapist echoed in the time-honored ritual. ``Please take your time.''
+``Of course, End Of Endings,'' Her Therapist echoed in the time-honored ritual. ``Please, take your time.''
 
 The Woman gave a hint of a bow and enjoyed the last two bites of her sandwich as well as she was able, following each with a sip of soy milk, all while Her Therapist made herself comfortable, sitting back in her chair and gazing out over the field of grass and dandelions, a half-smile on her face.
 
@@ -58,7 +58,7 @@ After therapy, after Her Therapist had left and the chairs had been set beneath
 
 There was a sense of falling-short within her, a sense of not meeting expectations. Perhaps it was a sense of shame that she had been so keen to hide this idea that she had happened upon, to keep the idea of the end of joy to herself. Perhaps it was because she had so easily let herself be talked out of sharing earnestly that which she would most liked to have discussed. Perhaps it was because—and here I am using words she herself would use—it was because she was a coward. Perhaps, when confronted with something that she believed to be worth talking about, to have such stopped before she could do so took the wind out of her sails, and she was too cowardly to do anything but let that happen. So many perhapses.
 
-It was with these thoughts and these feelings filling her mind to overfull that The Woman walked back to the house, back up the stairs to the porch, back through the door with a brush of the fingers, back up the staircase, back to her room where she stripped and climbed back into bed.
+It was with these thoughts and these feelings filling her mind to overfull that The Woman walked back to the house, back up the stairs to the porch, back through the door with a brush of fingers on jamb, back up the staircase, back to her room where she stripped and climbed back into bed.
 
 There she slept, and perhaps there she dreamed.
 

idumea/content/004.tex

@@ -4,7 +4,7 @@ What \emph{was} her lot in life? What was \emph{a} lot in life? Was she limited
 
 She knew where they came from.
 
-Her lot in life had at one point been to teach, to revel in the joy of acting and directing and sets and props and lights and sound and audience and her lovely, loving students who ached for nothing more than to be seen, to receive some perhaps hug from this person who they trusted and yet who could not give them such for fear of pandemic and regulation in equal measure, to receive some perhaps affection from their cohort and yet which their beloved teacher stopped them for fear of pandemic and regulation in unequal measure.
+Her lot in life had at one point been to teach, to revel in the joy of acting and directing and sets and props and lights and sound and audience and her lovely, loving students who ached for nothing more than to be seen, to receive some perhaps hug from this person who they trusted and yet who could not give them such for fear of pandemic and regulation in equal measure, to receive some perhaps affection from their cohort and yet which their beloved teacher stopped them—was required to stop them—for fear of pandemic and regulation in unequal measure.
 
 She knew the helplessness of having her agency ripped from her. She knew the feeling of being seen by something larger than mere personhood, a thing which saw her and said, ``this here is a wretched and despicable thing,'' and then took her from the world. And then her lot in life was to campaign, for though she still taught on occasion, still directed, she found she could not act as she wished, and still she had to refrain from hugging for fear of the discomfort of touch.
 
@@ -58,9 +58,9 @@ The Woman furrowed her brow. ``Perhaps, yes. I was thinking about it during the
 
 ``Can you tell me about that?'' Ey smiled, adding, ``Sorry. I try to stay away from therapeutic language in our discussions, but habits are habits. I really do just want to hear.''
 
-``I trust you, No Hesitation.'' The Woman brushed the longer fur of her mane out her eyes as she pieced together her words. ``It felt like a thing to bear within me. I\ldots well, I had considered sharing it, as well, but then Ever Dream requested that I stop. I told her of our meeting and the joy and was going to mention this sharing of joy, but I mentioned our conversation and she requested that I stop. She said that she would like to hear about it from you herself rather than from me.''
+``I trust you, No Hesitation.'' The Woman brushed the longer fur of her mane out her eyes as she pieced together her words. ``It felt like a thing to bear within me. I\ldots well, I had considered sharing it, as well, but then Ever Dream requested that I stop. I told her of our meeting and the joy and was going to mention this sharing of joy, but I mentioned our conversation and she stopped me. She said that she would like to hear about it from you herself rather than from me.''
 
-Her Friend sighed. ``She did not need to. I understand why, but she did not need to. I believe that I am your friend before I am her cocladist, but I do not think that she would agree with that.''
+Her Friend sighed. ``She did not need to maintain confidentiality. I understand why, but she did not need to. I believe that I am your friend before I am her cocladist, but I do not think that she would agree with that.''
 
 The Woman sat back in her seat, mocha clutched in her paws. ``Alright. I believe you on that, too.''
 
@@ -80,11 +80,11 @@ The Woman and Her Friend set to work, then, discussing what she could do, what s
 
 \secdiv
 
-The Woman and Her Friend decided that her path forward would be one of intent and deliberate action. After all, that is how our System works, yes? We intend to be wearing a piece of clothing we like and we are. We intend to step from this sim to that, and we do. We intend to fork and, lo! There beside us stands another instance of ourself! They are a whole new us! They can live their own life, going their own separate way and making their own choices, or perhaps they can go out to do some task or another or visit some friend for coffee and then quit, merging themself back down into us.
+The Woman and Her Friend decided that her path forward would be one of intent and deliberate action. After all, that is how our System works, yes? We intend to be wearing a piece of clothing we like and we are. We intend to step from this sim to that, and we do. We intend to fork and, lo! There beside us stands another instance of ourself! They are a whole new us! They can live their own life, going their own separate way and making their own choices, or perhaps they can go out to do some task or another or visit some friend for coffee and then quit, merging themself—along with all of their memories—back down into us.
 
 They decided on a list of five things that she should try.
 
-Why five, you ask? Well, I honestly do not know! Perhaps because of the five fingers we have on each paw. Perhaps it is because we have two arms, two legs, and a head protruding from our trunk. Or perhaps it has to do with the stars. Starfish? Little wandering doodles to replace the tittles above our 'i's and jots above our 'j's? Each an iota, a mote, a symbol to our future selves, a note for later. Asterisms and asterisks.
+Why five, you ask? Well, I honestly do not know! Perhaps because of the five fingers we have on each paw. Perhaps it is because we have two arms, two legs, and a head protruding from our trunk. Or perhaps it has to do with the stars. Starfish? Little wandering doodles to replace the tittles above our `i's and jots above our `j's? Each an iota, a mote, a symbol to our future selves, a note for later. Asterisms and asterisks. Footnotes of self.
 
 Ah, but I digress. The Woman and her friend chose a list of five things that she would try—\emph{would,} yes, for \emph{should,} you see, is a value judgment—in order to seek joy in small ways or in small places. The Woman knew that it would be hard. She knew that she would have to bundle up all of her energy and all of her patience with herself and all of her drive and use that to let her last through these explorations of joy.
 
@@ -140,15 +140,15 @@ The Woman tamped down the burgeoning sense of overstimulation and bowed. ``Yes.
 
 ``Lovely lovely lovely. Please, please come in and lay down. I do so love grooming you and yours.''
 
-And so The Woman went inside and lay down and let The Aesthetician work through her mane and over her tail and through all the little nooks and crannies around her neck and limbs. All the while, they chatted quietly—for an aesthetician such as this reads their clients well and knew how to modulate their attitude that they not overwhelm someone such as The Woman. The brushing was calm and peaceful and felt lovely and delightful in all those ways that she appreciated when she was able to do it herself, and yet it came with a sense of companionship and camaraderie that left her feeling fulfilled and, yes, joyful. Joyful! The Woman and The Aesthetician talked and talked, and The Woman spoke more freely to her than she ever did to Her Therapist and, without being able to explain just how, she knew that the words she spoke would be kept in just as close a confidence.
+And so The Woman went inside and lay down and let The Aesthetician work through her mane and over her tail and through all the little nooks and crannies around her neck and limbs. All the while, they chatted quietly—for an aesthetician such as this reads their clients well and knew how to modulate their attitude that they not overwhelm someone such as The Woman. The brushing was calm and peaceful and felt lovely and delightful in all those ways that she appreciated when she was able to do it herself, and yet it came with a sense of companionship and camaraderie that left her feeling fulfilled and, yes, joyful. Joyful! The Woman and The Aesthetician talked and talked, and The Woman spoke more freely to her than ever she did to Her Therapist and, without being able to explain just how, she knew that the words she spoke would be kept in just as close a confidence.
 
 The Woman left refreshed, renewed, reinvigorated, and with this eye she set to looking into the escalation that she promised Her Friend.
 
-We have seen such success already, have we not? We have seen the ways in which The Woman—she who does not have many friends—enjoys the touch of hugs or a paw rested atop hers. It is a sometimes food, yes? But then, it is for all of us. I do not always want to be hugged or touched—I do not now, here on the edge of overflow—and there are forms of touch I do not like at all! The woman here is considering intimacy, yes? Sensuality and sexuality? Those are things that I do not like. I like \emph{that} they exist, I am glad that they do, and I even like writing about them—see, here! I am even about to do so!—but they are things that I hold at a distance from myself.
+We have seen such success already, have we not? We have seen the ways in which The Woman—she who does not have many friends—enjoys the touch of hugs or a paw rested atop hers. It is a sometimes food, yes? But then, it is for all of us. I do not always want to be hugged or touched—I do not now, here on the edge of overflow—and there are forms of touch I do not like at all! The Woman here is considering intimacy, yes? Sensuality and sexuality? Those are things that I do not like. I like \emph{that} they exist, I am glad that they do, and I even like writing about them—see, here! I am even about to do so!—but they are things that I hold at a distance from myself.
 
 Ah, but my words are wandering. This touch, even the grooming, is a sometimes food for The Woman, and yet she had held herself at a distance from such for who knows what reason. I do not think she knew, herself, my friends, for she is as we all are: she is a woman who craves touch and deserves touch and does not, on an intellectual level, wish that she were \emph{not} touched. It is emotional, perhaps, or psychic, or spiritual, or on some level other than the intellectual that the desire to touch and be touched, or the physical need for fulfillment, is difficult for her.
 
-And thus The Woman began her slow climb up the ladder of escalation. She met once more with Her Friend and asked, kindly, perhaps a bit nervously, for a hug and for the chance to hold hands and paws—for she was a human that day, and Her Friend a skunk as ever—and it took something of a force of will to let such touch linger, it was a pleasant sensation and a pleasant conversation that followed, an exploration—between friends, for Her Friend was always careful to specifically \emph{not} be The Woman's therapist—of meanings and boundaries.
+And thus The Woman began her slow climb up the ladder of escalation. She met once more with Her Friend and asked, kindly, perhaps a bit nervously, for a hug and for the chance to hold hands and paws—for she was a human that day, and Her Friend a skunk as ever—and it took something of a force of will to let such touch linger. It was a pleasant sensation and a pleasant conversation that followed, an exploration—between friends, for Her Friend was always careful to specifically \emph{not} be The Woman's therapist—of meanings and boundaries.
 
 And so it was that The Woman sought out those who she knew, those who might have some affection for her beyond simple conversational friendship, those who had been sensual of old, partners and almost-partners from centuries ago who remained still on the System. She thought back through the years and years and years, and Her Lover was the one who leapt most readily to mind.
 
@@ -160,11 +160,11 @@ The response was immediate. \emph{``End Of Endings! Oh my god! You have no idea
 
 There was a long moment silence on the other end of the connection, though the sense of it lingering remained. \emph{``I am sorry, love,''} Her Lover said at last. \emph{``I haven't forgotten you, though, or my fondness, so yeah, I'd love to reconnect.''}
 
-If my more recently uploaded friends feel some sense of curiosity about how it is that someone with whom one has let contact language for decades might still feel fondness after so long, or how one might not forget, you must remember that those who live sys-side remain functionally immortal. If one leans into such a fact, then decades spent away may as well be a blink of an eye, yes? If one leans into the everlasting memory with which we are blessed or cursed or which is simply bestowed upon us without further thought, then a past lover away from whom one has simply drifted amicably is just as easily recalled.
+If my more recently uploaded friends feel some sense of curiosity about how it is that someone with whom one has let contact languish for decades might still feel fondness after so long, or how one might not forget, you must remember that those who live sys-side remain functionally immortal. If one leans into such a fact, then decades spent away may as well be a blink of an eye, yes? If one leans into the everlasting memory with which we are blessed or cursed or which is simply bestowed upon us without further thought, then a past lover away from whom one has simply drifted amicably is just as easily recalled.
 
-We are very old, you see. Why, at this point, I am 323 years old! And The Woman is of the same clade, so the same is naturally true of her—if she lives still, that is. To us, we remember being mortal as only some distant thing from so long ago. We have our identity as those who may live life slowly. Things may still come at us quickly, yes, but we can deal with them in parallel, can we not? I could get a note from my dear up-tree stating that it is lonely or bored or simply hungry and wants someone to eat with, and so I may continue writing while joining em in this simple pleasure. I did that just earlier today, when she mentioned wanting to eat something good, some comforting food she learned from eir own friend, so that good memories may also be cherished. When I did join it for a simple meal of \emph{ciorbă de praz} and \emph{ardei umpluți}—for you see, its friend is Romanian and taught em so many of the dishes that she now loves—I sat and listened and remembered and talked and ate and perhaps also fretted over stepping away from work, but I allowed myself to take some slowness, too. Even I am allowed such things, yes? Even the terminally busy may let one self stay busy while the other comforts and is comforted by those they are close to.
+We are very old, you see. Why, at this point, I am 323 years old! And The Woman is of the same clade, so the same is naturally true of her—if she lives still, that is. To us, we remember being mortal as only some distant thing from so long ago. We have our identity as those who may live life slowly. Things may still come at us quickly, yes, but we can deal with them in parallel, can we not? I could get a note from my beloved up-tree stating that it is lonely or bored or simply hungry and wants someone to eat with, and so I may continue writing while joining em in this simple pleasure. I did that just earlier today, when she mentioned wanting to eat something good, some comforting food she learned from eir own friend, so that good memories may also be cherished. When I did join it for a simple meal of \emph{ciorbă de praz} and \emph{ardei umpluți}—for you see, its friend is Romanian and taught em so many of the dishes that she now loves—I sat and listened and remembered and talked and ate and perhaps also fretted over stepping away from work, but I allowed myself to take some slowness, too. Even I am allowed such things, yes? Even the terminally busy may let one self stay busy while the other comforts and is comforted by those they are close to.
 
-Ah, dear readers, I am sorry that I cannot keep my thoughts from wandering an letting my pen trail after them like an eager puppy—yes, just like The Woman's rituals—and that such interrupts the story I am trying to tell!
+Ah, dear readers, I am sorry that I cannot keep my thoughts from wandering and letting my pen trail after them like an eager puppy—yes, just like The Woman's rituals—and that such interrupts the story I am trying to tell!
 
 All of this to say that The Woman and Her Lover spent some years together back in the first century of the System, back after secession but before she had fallen into her gentle stasis, before the goal of processing trauma was subsumed by the trauma itself. They had met—and you will not believe this, friends!—they had met at the very same cafe where The Woman and Her Friend met only days before. They had stumbled across each other in the most romantic way possible: by ordering the same coffees at the counter. They both asked for the same mocha with extra whipped cream, gave each other a strange look, and then fell into laughter.
 
@@ -178,7 +178,7 @@ My gentle readers, I would love to tell you that they met up at that selfsame ca
 
 A train! There are many things on Lagrange, this shared dream in which we live, and many things which have been perfected all the way down to their imperfections. When you collect so many minds all in one place and tell them to live their best and to live it forever, why, they will perfect precisely the things they love most and, my friends, I am sure I do not need to tell you that some people \emph{love} trains.
 
-As was their wont in decades passed, The Woman met Her Lover onboard rather than on the platform. It was their habit for Her Lover to step aboard the train one stop after The Woman did, and for them to both hunt for a seat—no matter how empty the train was; for even if it was totally empty, the \emph{perfect} seat is of the utmost importance—and to meet in the aisle. You see, when your relationship has its beginning in a chance meeting, sometimes it feels nice to seek out those chance meetings again, yes? What better way to do so than on so linear a structure as a train? It certainly reduces the possibilities of near misses!
+As was their wont in decades past, The Woman met Her Lover onboard rather than on the platform. It was their habit for Her Lover to step aboard the train one stop after The Woman did, and for them to both hunt for a seat—no matter how empty the train was; for even if it was totally empty, the \emph{perfect} seat is of the utmost importance—and to meet in the aisle. You see, when your relationship has its beginning in a chance meeting, sometimes it feels nice to seek out those chance meetings again, yes? What better way to do so than on so linear a structure as a train? It certainly reduces the possibilities of near misses!
 
 Somewhere near the front of the train, they met, and here they felt that welcome surprise. The ``chance meeting'' may have been deliberately constructed, and yet it was not without a sense of newness. The Woman was a familiar panther that day and Her Lover a human as always, but The Woman, who had been so focused on her stasis until now, realized at once that she \emph{had} changed over the years. Slowly, to be sure, and perhaps not in the ways that she wished, but she had changed. Today, she wore a silver-gray wrap of a shirt, all shot through with purple threads, and a gray-silver wrap of Thai fisherman's pants, all shot through with threads of blue. Her fur may have been the same black, short and glossy, and she may have lingered in suffering as the tenth stanza had in her own way, but she was hardly the type to fully languish, nor wear the same thing for years or decades at a time!
 
@@ -224,19 +224,19 @@ With that, she leaned over to give The Woman another kiss to the cheek, and then
 
 They laughed together at their touches and their brazenness and their shared joy. They shared their nuzzles and their giggles and they, as the poet says,\label{paz1} shared their oranges and gave their kisses like waves exchanging foam.
 
-My lovely readers, there is more that happened—and I am going to tell you! I really will, because it is important to the story, of course, and because it is important to our life sys-side and to us as a clade and it was important to The Woman and Her Lover—but, dear ones, if you would like to skip ahead, to cover your eyes and curate your experience or to simply let them have their moment together, know that our life sys-side and our clade are complicated and that The Woman and Her Lover were complicated, too, and so was the joy they found. Know that they also, as the poet says,\label{paz2} shared their limes and gave their kisses like clouds exchanging foam.
+My lovely readers, there is more that happened—and I am going to tell you! I really will, because it is important to the story, of course, and because it is important to our lives sys-side and to us as a clade and it was important to The Woman and Her Lover—but, dear ones, if you would like to skip ahead, to cover your eyes and curate your experience or to simply let them have their moment together, know that our lives sys-side and our clade are complicated and that The Woman and Her Lover were complicated, too, and so was the joy they found. Know that they also, as the poet says,\label{paz2} shared their limes and gave their kisses like clouds exchanging foam.
 
-They leaned on each other as they stepped lightly from the train to the station, and, although the station was a loveliness in its own right, their conversation had spurred within them both a desire to explore and gladly, rather than their feet hitting the cement of the platform, they landed instead on the cool, hardwood floor of Her Lover's home where The Woman brushed her fingertips featherlight against the still-familiar jamb.
+They leaned on each other as they stepped lightly from the train to the platform, and, although the station was a loveliness in its own right, their conversation had spurred within them both a desire to explore and gladly, rather than their feet hitting the cement of the platform, they landed instead on the cool, hardwood floor of Her Lover's home where The Woman brushed her fingertips featherlight against the still-familiar jamb.
 
 There was no rush to their movements, for both The Woman and Her Lover had always been methodical in their sensuality. Perhaps it fit the mold of one of The Woman's rituals—she must touch here, first, and then she would kiss there, and only then would she brush her fingers there, across the cheek—and perhaps not—a logical progression remains a logical progression without the hint of ritual.
 
-There was no rush to their movements, and so they sat first on the couch, sharing their kisses, refamiliarizing themselves with each other. The Woman felt within a subtle twisting, a stirring, a clockwise motion that dragged with it two colors of emotions. There was the love rekindled, there, yes, and there was along with it a growing anxiety: there was something less than worry and more than thought. In the middle, there was a spot between joy and fear, a place of too much meaning that she could not pin down.\label{timo} Arousal, perhaps? For there was that, there, too. That was perhaps of that clockwise turning: the slow swell of warmth low in her belly and the gentle pressure within her chest and bristle of whiskers. Excitement, maybe? Anticipation?
+There was no rush to their movements, and so they sat first on the couch, sharing their kisses, refamiliarizing themselves with each other. The Woman felt within a subtle twisting, a stirring, a clockwise motion\label{kassad} that dragged with it two colors of emotions. There was the love rekindled, there, yes, and there was along with it a growing anxiety: there was something less than worry and more than thought. In the middle, there was a spot between joy and fear, a place of too much meaning that she could not pin down.\label{timo} Arousal, perhaps? For there was that, there, too. That was perhaps of that clockwise turning: the slow swell of warmth low in her belly and the gentle pressure within her chest and bristle of whiskers. Excitement, maybe? Anticipation?
 
-Here was another thing for The Woman to set before herself where she might observe it, describe its shape by the way the orange and blue of love and anxiety swirled around it.
+Here was another thing for The Woman to set before herself where she might observe it, describe its shape by the way the orange and blue of love and anxiety\label{blue-orange} swirled around it.
 
 But, ah! Here, too, was Her Lover. Here was a soul she treasured. Here was a body she cherished. Here was this spot—just beneath the chin—which, when kissed, elicited a shiver, and this spot—at the hollow of the throat—which, when brushed with a fingerpad, elicited something both gasp and giggle. Here was arousal and excitement and anticipation in equal measure. Here was a thing for her to focus on that was not the cool blue of anxiety that warred with love remembered in unequal measure.
 
-There was no rush to their movements, though, and arousal and excitement and anticipation in equal measure are a joy in their own, and so with some unspoken negotiation, The Woman leaned back and Her Lover leaned forward rather than the other way around. There was some careful tail maneuvering to accomplish this, but, my friends, we are used to it. There is \emph{always} a careful maneuvering of our tails. Skunk tails, you see, are quite sizeable, and feline tails are less flexible at the base. It is a part of our lives, you see? There is still joy in having a tail, though, and with her tail out of the way, The Woman was once more able to relax, this time laid flat on her back, and Her Lover was once more able to provide that meteor shower of kisses down over the side of her neck, then over across her décolletage, and it was here where, as promised, here is where the complications arose, for it was at that moment, at the moment where Her Lover's kisses landed upon that lovely spot at the hollow of her throat that there was a bright flash amidst the blue of The Woman's anxiety and she was no longer The Woman who was a panther, but instead The Woman who was human.
+There was no rush to their movements, though, and arousal and excitement and anticipation in equal measure are a joy in their own, and so with some unspoken negotiation, The Woman leaned back and Her Lover leaned forward rather than the other way around. There was some careful tail maneuvering to accomplish this, but, my friends, we are used to it. There is \emph{always} a careful maneuvering of our tails. Skunk tails, you must understand, are quite sizeable, and feline tails are less flexible at the base. It is a part of our lives, you see? There is still joy in having a tail, though, and with her tail out of the way, The Woman was once more able to relax, this time laid flat on her back, and Her Lover was once more able to provide that meteor shower of kisses down over the side of her neck, then over across her décolletage, and it was here where, as promised, the complications arose, for it was at that moment, at the moment where Her Lover's kisses landed upon that lovely spot at the hollow of her throat that there was a bright flash amidst the blue of The Woman's anxiety and she was no longer The Woman who was a panther, but instead The Woman who was human.
 
 Both The Woman and Her Lover let out a startled exclamation and both froze where they were. The Woman froze because suddenly her clothes fit different and her field of view no longer included the bridge of a wide muzzle and her ears were positioned differently and there was no longer any fur mediating touch. Her Lover froze because\ldots well, I do not rightly know, friends. We can guess, yes? We can guess that there was the shock of a new form, yes, but they knew each other well, did they not? We can guess that there was a shift on the couch beneath her with a different shape, different size, different weight of lover, but they knew each other well, did they not? They knew each other well, and so we may guess that Her Lover knew that such a shift was not always a pleasantness for The Woman, not always a joy.
 
@@ -264,6 +264,6 @@ The Woman shifted forms several times more. There were, they found, certain mile
 
 Throughout it all, all those kisses—whether or not The Woman was able to return them, for giving kisses with a muzzle is not a thing she was able to do—and those squeezes and strokes and the gentle way Her Lover cupped her palm over The Woman's mons, throughout all those shifts, The Woman kept before her that ineffable point. Throughout all of the warmth of love and those stinging-cold flashes of anxiety and they way they swirled clockwise, she peered closer that she might scry some meaning out of this kernel of what was most certainly not joy. Even as the warm wave of climax pushed through her, rushing out from that spot low in her belly, even as she clutched at Her Lover's shoulders, fingertips and clawtips both tugging at skin, even as her cries smoothed out into whine-tinged breaths, she tried to name the unnamable.
 
-They lay together for hours after, talking and touching. They moved to the bed and The Woman who was a skunk or a human or a panther brought such pleasure as she had been given to Her Lover, and at last they slept, and the undefinable remained undefined. There was joy in that touch, in that remembered love, and she knew that Her Lover would be by her side for some time to come if she let her—and she would let her—and that, too was a joy. And still, there between joy and fear\ldots{}
+They lay together for hours after, talking and touching. They moved to the bed and The Woman who was a skunk or a human or a panther brought such pleasure as she had been given to Her Lover, and at last they slept, and the undefinable remained undefined. There was joy in that touch, in that remembered love, and she knew that Her Lover would be by her side for some time to come if she let her—and she would let her—and that, too, was a joy.\label{echo} And still, there between joy and fear\ldots{}
 
 There was joy, yes, but it was not a complete joy. Her hedonism with touch and sensuality and sexuality was a lovely hedonism and she cherished it, but it was not the hedonism she needed for this task.

idumea/content/005.tex

@@ -2,7 +2,7 @@ Some of my readers may be wondering why it is that I know so much about The Woma
 
 ``How does she know all of this?'' some might be wondering. ``Does she really know all these things that The Woman did? Does she know who the kindly shop owner is? The one who pet on The Woman as she sobbed from too spicy a chili?'' Others might be wondering—and rightly so!—``How much of this is actually real? Surely she does not know The Woman's innermost thoughts! All this talk of ideas in shapes being set before her is quite silly.''
 
-My answer is that tired phrase: ``It is complicated.'' Of course I do not know her innermost thoughts. I think it is a me thing to take abstract ideas and pretend they look like pretty baubles or hot coals or little statuettes to be placed upon a dresser. I cannot read minds, and I do not have any memories from The Woman. I do not even know quite what she is anymore! I would not know if she quit, since I am not down-tree from her—her down-tree instance is dead now, these last six decades, remember—and I do not believe she merged cross-tree with anyone except perhaps Ashes Denote That Fire Was, who is building in themself a gestalt of the clade as best they can. No, I do not know anything so intimate.
+My answer is that tired phrase: ``It is complicated.'' Of course I do not know her innermost thoughts. I think it is a me thing to take abstract ideas and pretend they look like pretty baubles or hot coals or little statuettes to be placed upon a dresser. I cannot read minds, and I do not have any memories from The Woman. I do not even know quite what she is anymore! I would not know if she quit, since I am not down-tree from her—her down-tree instance is dead now, these last six decades, remember—and I do not believe she merged cross-tree with anyone except perhaps Ashes Denote That Fire Was, who is building in themself a gestalt of the clade as best they can.\label{ashes} No, I do not know anything so intimate.
 
 What I do have, though, is a story. I have the story I learned from The Woman's Friend and Therapist and Cocladist and Lover, the one I learned from The Blue Fairy. I have all of that story that I learned, and I have that story that I lived.
 
@@ -24,7 +24,7 @@ And now here she was, standing in the little courtyard created by the set of tow
 
 My place is clean and minimal. It is not clean because I am necessarily a clean person, nor is it minimal because I have any particular attachments to minimalism or its trappings. Friends, you have surely gathered by now that I am quite a bit more focused on writing than I am on most anything else. My home contains a simple kitchen and a simple dining table. There is a den in which there is a couch and a coffee table. There are two bedrooms, one of which contains a bed and the other of which is empty. The only room that is of any interest is perhaps my office, but even that is probably too minimal for most people's tastes! I have a desk. I have paper and pens and a keyboard on which I can type when that is the mood.
 
-That is not to say that it is a boring place—at least, I do not think so! I have some paintings on the wall, some landscapes interrupted by hyper-black squares painted by The Child. There are several little decorations scattered around, as well; little objects that The Oneirotect has made in its explorations in oneirotecture and oneiro-impressionism. The most meaningful of these sits on my writing desk, and takes the form of a wireframe polyhedral fox about the size of my paw. While it is silver in color, it does not cast any shadows on itself and has constant luminosity, and so it looks like a two-dimensional shape that changes as your perspective does.
+That is not to say that it is a boring place—at least, I do not think so! I have some paintings on the wall, some landscapes interrupted by hyper-black squares painted by The Child. There are several little decorations scattered around, as well: little objects that The Oneirotect has made in its explorations in oneirotecture and oneiro-impressionism. The most meaningful of these sits on my writing desk, and takes the form of a wireframe polyhedral fox about the size of my paw. While it is silver in color, it does not cast any shadows on itself and has constant luminosity, and so it looks like a two-dimensional shape that changes as your perspective does.
 
 Ah, I am digressing again. My thoughts and words wander.
 
@@ -62,7 +62,7 @@ I do not know if you have ever been complimented in just the right way by just t
 
 The Woman, this skunk who sat before me with a glass of water held in her paws and her very chic outfit, the one who had smiled to me with such earnestness as to be a blessing, this woman who was too much herself, had just perceived me with such force as to leave me feeling bowled over. Even today, even these many years later, I remember that compliment and find breath catching in my throat, and we have already spoken on that, have we not?
 
-We sat in silence, then, while I processed this. My friends, you may perhaps have picked up the sense that The Woman is in some fundamental way broken and perhaps unable to interact well with others. After all, she sits for so long in her room and in her home and on her field, and she sees Her Friend only with some small frequency, and had only just recently gotten in touch with Her Lover, yes? And that is in many ways true, that she is broken. But it is not \emph{wholly} true. She was too much herself, yes, and she would have said even then that she had lived for too long and that she was in some fundamental way broken, but she was also so much more! I have shown you all that she was through her own perception, but from the outside\ldots ah, she was hard not to love, my friends.
+We sat in silence, then, while I processed this. My friends, you may perhaps have picked up the sense that The Woman is in some fundamental way broken and perhaps unable to interact well with others. After all, she sits for so long in her room and in her home and on her field, and she sees Her Friend only with some small frequency, and had only just recently gotten in touch with Her Lover, yes? And that is in many ways true, that she is broken. But it is not \emph{wholly} true. She was too much herself, yes, and she would have said even then that she had lived for too long and that she would probably say that she was in some fundamental way broken, but she was also so much more! I have shown you all that she was through her own perception, but from the outside\ldots ah, she was hard not to love, my friends.
 
 ``Thank you, my dear,'' I said at last, bowing.
 
@@ -110,7 +110,7 @@ that this must be the case.
 
 I turned those words over and over in my head for a minute, since The Woman had seemed quite comfortable sitting in silence with me. She used that time to drink her water while I played back the words again and again, looking down at my paws, and then returned my gaze to hers. ``There is a difference between the mere performance of grief and grieving itself, is there not?''
 
-``It is as you say. There is performed grief and performative grief—performative in the philosophical sense. We of the tenth stanza were quite sad when Lagrange came back with us intact but not with Should We Forget. We received condolences from many, some flowers and many kind words. Ever Dream came over and spoke with me about grief as we sat out on the field, where she said,''It is quite sad, is it not? To lose someone you have known for so long is quite sad.'' I agreed, and then drew a line around the topic.'' She performed such a motion now, describing an arc before her with one of her well kept claws, before dismissing it with a wave. ``This was grief performed.''
+``It is as you say. There is performed grief and performative grief—performative in the philosophical sense. We of the tenth stanza were quite sad when Lagrange came back with us intact but not with Should We Forget. We received condolences from many, some flowers and many kind words. Ever Dream came over and spoke with me about grief as we sat out on the field, where she said, ``It is quite sad, is it not? To lose someone you have known for so long is quite sad.'' I agreed, and then drew a line around the topic.'' She performed such a motion now, describing an arc before her with one of her well kept claws, before dismissing it with a wave. ``This was grief performed.''
 
 I nodded, and in my heart, I think I knew what was coming next, for I found my muscles bunching up as in in preparation for something—flight, perhaps? I do not know, my friends.
 
@@ -212,7 +212,7 @@ She nodded. ``Yes. My thoughts became ordered, perhaps. That turbulence became a
 
 I laughed as well. ``Thank you, I think. I have a few that are labeled `meditations on whatever', but even those probably do not fit the bill.''
 
-``I would assume not. No, I came to you because I wanted to talk to you about creating specifically not just on Praiseworthy's suggestion, but also because I watched And We Are The Motes In The Stage-Lights paint while visiting Beholden.''
+``I would assume not. No, I came to you because I wanted to talk to you specifically about creating not just on Praiseworthy's suggestion, but also because I watched And We Are The Motes In The Stage-Lights paint while visiting Beholden.''
 
 ``Ah! Motes! What a delight!''
 
@@ -228,25 +228,25 @@ I laughed, nodding.
 
 ``I will say that she is no less flighty or energetic when she chooses to live at older ages. When she is, say, twenty five, there is still no stopping her.''
 
-``So I am told. However, she is also a very good girl, is she not? Beholden saw the state that I was in—for when Motes started zipping around the house, I started shifting between forms—and suggested that she go and paint. She said quite simply''Okay!'' and ran off to the next room where she simply sat on a stool and began painting.''
+``So I am told. However, she is also a very good girl, is she not? Beholden saw the state that I was in—for when Motes started zipping around the house, I started shifting between forms—and suggested that she go and paint. She said quite simply''Okay!'' and ran off to the next room where she sat on a stool and began painting.''
 
 I looked up to the wall beside the couch, upon which a painting sat. The Woman smiled and nodded.
 
 The painting was of my up-tree's house. The Instance Artist was one who decided that it had had quite enough of life in comfort, life here on Lagrange, life here honing, or perhaps forging new frontiers but in a familiar place, and up and left for the stars, back when humanity buckled down and decided to send out the two launch vehicles. Our very own twins, yes? Castor and Pollux? Those two half-sized Systems that even still race out of the Solar System at some unimaginable speed, yes? The Instance Artist left us all behind with no fork to spare, and broke all of our hearts.
 
-When it had lived here on Lagrange, though, it had contracted my other up-tree, The Sim Designer, Serene; Sustained And Sustaining, to build for it an infinite short-grass prairie. It was a land of long, rolling hills and yet longer flat basins that always drank most thirstily from the seasonal storms that did their best to thrash the Earth below. There, amid the countless acres, sat its house, low and flat, an echo of the plains around it all done up in concrete that matched so well the gray-tan stalks of the grass in fall, the gray-green stalks in spring, and glass.
+When it had lived here on Lagrange, though, it had contracted my other up-tree, The Sim Designer, Serene; Sustained And Sustaining, to build for it an infinite short-grass prairie. It was a land of long, rolling hills and yet longer flat basins that always drank most thirstily from the seasonal storms that did their best to thrash the Earth below.\label{dwale} There, amid the countless acres, sat its house, low and flat, an echo of the plains around it all done up in concrete that matched so well the gray-tan stalks of the grass in fall, the gray-green stalks in spring, and glass.
 
 And so there on my wall sat a painting that I had asked The Child to make, small by her standards at only the size of both of my paws held flat, wherein she had painted the house, the endless prairie, and the sky that somehow managed to be something beyond endless. There was the gray of the concrete that matched so well the gray-tan stalks of grass in fall, the gray-green stalks in spring, and glass. There was the plain, the sky.
 
-And there, right in the center, hovering a scant claw-width above the house, a perfectly black perfect square.\label{motes}
+And there, right in the center, hovering a scant claw-width above the house, a perfectly black perfect square.
 
-Readers, you must understand that, when I say perfectly black, I do mean it! There is this color, or non-color, \emph{Eigengrau} that is perhaps the darkest you are used to seeing. If you are in a perfectly dark room, or you are out beneath the stars at night and you close your eyes, or you are hiding under two layers of blankets from the monsters that haunt us still, even in this afterlife that we have built up into our nigh-perfection, what you see is not pure black, but \emph{Eigengrau.} It is the darkest color, I am told, that our eyes can see, phys-side! This is because, even when there is no light, the nerves of our eyes still fire occasionally. Perhaps it is because this is something that is required for nerve cells to feel healthy, and when those cells are in our muscles and it is just one or two at a time, it does not yank our hand away from our pen and paper like they were burning hot, but when they are in our eyes, every little firing is still perceived as a photon hitting this rod or that cone. Perhaps it is because there is some fundamental state of being for us that is \emph{not} stillness, but that is movement at some molecular level. Perhaps it is simply because they are lonely! I do not know, I do not know. I do not know.
+Readers, you must understand that, when I say perfectly black, I do mean it! There is this color—or non-color—\emph{Eigengrau} that is perhaps the darkest you are used to seeing. If you are in a perfectly dark room, or you are out beneath the stars at night and you close your eyes, or you are hiding under two layers of blankets from the monsters that haunt us still, even in this afterlife that we have built up into our nigh-perfection, what you see is not pure black, but \emph{Eigengrau.} It is the darkest color, I am told, that our eyes can see, phys-side! This is because, even when there is no light, the nerves of our eyes still fire occasionally. Perhaps it is because this is something that is required for nerve cells to feel healthy, and when those cells are in our muscles and it is just one or two at a time, it does not yank our hand away from our pen and paper like they were burning hot, but when they are in our eyes, every little firing is still perceived as a photon hitting this rod or that cone. Perhaps it is because there is some fundamental state of being for us that is \emph{not} stillness, but that is movement at some molecular level. Perhaps it is simply because they are lonely! I do not know, I do not know. I do not know.
 
-This square is not \emph{Eigengrau.} It is beyond that. It is beyond even black! It is an impossible black. It is deeper than \emph{Eigengrau,} yes, but it is also a very thirsty black. If the ground of The Instance Artist's prairie drinks thirstily of the sky, so too does this black drink thirstily of all the light in the world. It draws light from the room, and when you look at the painting, the world seems dimmer. It is a hole in the world.
+This square is not \emph{Eigengrau.} It is beyond that. It is beyond even black! It is an impossible black. It is deeper than \emph{Eigengrau,} yes, but it is also a very thirsty black. If the ground of The Instance Artist's prairie drinks thirstily of the sky, so too does this black drink thirstily of all the light in the world. It draws light from the room, and when you look at the painting, the world seems dimmer. It is a hole in the world.\label{motes}
 
-I am used to it, my friends, for it sits happily enough upon my wall, but I am told that it is unnerving to see.
+I am used to it, my friends, for it sits happily enough upon my wall, but I am told by some that it is unnerving to see.
 
-``Her paintings have always struck me as bearing a sort of serenity that I have not actually seen in the world,'' I said after we had appreciated house and plain and sky and hole in the world. ``It is more than just some moment of movement captured and frozen in time. It is like she records things that were never still to begin with.''
+``Her paintings have always struck me as bearing a sort of serenity that I have not actually seen in the world,'' I said after we had appreciated house and plain and sky and hole in the world. ``It is more than just some moment of movement captured and frozen in time. It is like she records things that had never been anything but still to begin with.''
 
 ``Yes, and that is what drew me to her,'' The Woman said, gaze lingering on the painting. ``I begged Beholden's leave to sit and watch Motes for nearly an hour. I claimed a spot in her studio once I received permission and watched as she worked. While I was there, she built up a scene of a mesa. I recognized it as Table Mountain. Do you remember?''
 
@@ -274,12 +274,11 @@ She nodded.
 
 ``I go back and forth. Sometimes, I feel that it is right in front of me and the house is in the distance, and that it is painted to scale so that it is quite small. Sometimes, I feel like it must be behind the house, or way out beyond the sky, and it is larger than the moon.''
 
-``I see we understand it in the same way. I cannot tell, either. I can tell you, though, that watching Motes brought me the closest to the joy that I have been seeking that I have ever been.'' She frowned down to her glass, now empty. When she continued, her speech was halting, slow, thoughtful. ``Not\ldots for me, not my own joy, and I think not even for her, though the little skunk certainly seems quite joyful. It is\ldots adjacent to the joy. It brought me near to the joy, but did not necessarily bring the joy to me.''
+``I see we understand it in the same way. I cannot tell, either. I can tell you, though, that watching Motes brought me the closest to the joy that I have been seeking than I have ever been.'' She frowned down to her glass, now empty. When she continued, her speech was halting, slow, thoughtful. ``Not\ldots for me, not my own joy, and I think not even for her, though the little skunk certainly seems quite joyful. It is\ldots adjacent to the joy. It brought me near to the joy, but did not necessarily bring the joy to me.''
 
 \secdiv
 
 \label{warmth}
-
 We talked for some time more, The Woman and I, and discussed what it was that we could do to help her find joy. I am sorry to say, though, that we were not able to come up with something.
 
 We circled for some time around meditative acts and how that might work with writing. Automatic writing, perhaps? Should The Woman set up with a note book and a pen and look into some deeper self and begin to write? Should she bid my demon of graphomania visit her, grab her by the wrist, drag her pen across the page that words may flow after it like eager puppies?
@@ -296,7 +295,7 @@ So it was that The Woman returned home with the promise to come back the next da
 
 ``For whom do you write, Rye?''
 
-I had an answer ready for this, dear Readers, for this is something that I think about with some frequency. ``I write for those who need to read.''
+I had an answer ready for this, dear readers, for this is something that I think about with some frequency. ``I write for those who need to read.''
 
 The Woman tilted her head—she was back to being a skunk, yes, but this is a habit that all of us share within the Ode clade, no matter our shape. ``I have heard it said so often that one should write for oneself and wait for an audience to come.''
 
@@ -306,7 +305,7 @@ She furrowed her brow. ``I will admit that I spent last night thinking much on t
 
 I laughed, reached into a pocket, and withdrew my current favorite pen. It is, you may be surprised to hear, quite plain. It is round and it is long. It has a cap that posts on the back. The nib is nothing special. It is a demonstrator—that is, it has a clear body so that one can see the ink within—but so are many of my pens. No, there is little special about it overall, other than the fact that it simply fits well within my paw, and that, dear friends, is what is most important in a pen.
 
-I handed the pen over to The Woman and she drew a notepad out of the air, write a few short sentences on it with the pen, nodded appreciatively, and handed it back. ``It is a joy to write with, my dear. But to my point, I suspect there is goodness in the act of writing, but not the fulfillment I am seeking.''
+I handed the pen over to The Woman and she drew a notepad out of the air, wrote a few short sentences on it with the pen, nodded appreciatively, and handed it back. ``It is a joy to write with, my dear. But to my point, I suspect there is goodness in the act of writing, but not the fulfillment I am seeking.''
 
 I nodded. ``I would agree with that, yes. You speak of a way of being. You speak of not just creating, but of being a creative.''
 
@@ -315,3 +314,227 @@ I nodded. ``I would agree with that, yes. You speak of a way of being. You speak
 We sat in silence for a minute or so, simply enjoying our mochas—readers, by now you must know that we are nothing if not ourselves—while we each considered the direction of our conversation. It is not comfortable for me to be unable to address a thing that I feel I ought to be able to. When presented with a problem that even sounds like it \emph{might} be within my bailiwick, if I cannot, it is in some key way dysphoric to me. The best I can manage, as I did then, was to recast the problem into a conversation. It does not remove the dysphoria, for I still have not solved anything, but it has set it aside, perhaps just in the other room. There is a selfishness in me.
 
 At last, I said, ``Would it be alright if I were to invite over Warmth? It is my beloved up-tree, of course, but ey also has thoughts on this that may help us find inroads to your fulfillment.''
+
+The Woman smiled and nodded. ``By all means, please do.''
+
+We are the most of us not tall women, just as Michelle who was Sasha was not tall: just a little over a meter and a half or, as our literature professor described her in class after she read some saccharine ode by John Keats, ``Miss Michelle Hadje, five foot four.''\label{keatsheight}
+
+That \emph{`most'} that I have written just now is doing much work, however. Several of us are taller. Why, I remain just an few centimeters taller than Michelle who was Sasha stood, but I might just as easily be mistaken for her when she appeared as a skunk, so similar are we. Oh! And The Oneirotect's sometimes-partner, Hold My Name Beneath Your Tongue And Know, towers over me by a head.
+
+Several of us are shorter. The Child, as you will see, is understandably shorter. My little readers who sit cross-legged on carpet squares, perhaps you can picture her, for she is precisely as I have named her: a child.
+
+The Oneirotect, my beloved up-tree, is not quite a child, and yet she is small. I think she is small enough that some would perhaps confuse her for one in the same way that The Child is a child, and I think that this may indeed be a little bit of transgression in which ey revels. She is tiny, perhaps even smaller than The Child, perhaps just over one meter high!
+
+It also has within it a level of energy that may well contribute to this childlike nature. It zips and zooms and careens off walls as easily as does The Child—easier, perhaps, for even if she is only a few centimeters shorter, she is far more slender, far more lithe, borderline wiry, and she embodies the jitteriness that one might assume were I to call it `critter'.
+
+But no, ey is not a child. The Child owns that identity for herself. She leaned into the youngest sister of the fifth stanza, she owned \emph{youngest} as meaning childhood, as was her choice. The Oneirotect, however, is simply the most recently claimed line, and is thus the youngest of all Odists with a snippet of our superlative friend's words to call its own. Ey lack the being-a-kid-ness and dwell instead in eir own transgressiveness: their fur is mussed and seemingly perpetually stained with the colors of grass and dandelions, her personality is as untameable as the unruly mane atop her head, and its care is as boundless as its emotions.
+
+They are \emph{all} of our youngest sibling and she is my beloved up-tree.
+
+\emph{``Warmth, my dear, would you be able to spare a fork to join me for a conversation with End Of Endings?''} I asked via a sensorium message.
+
+\emph{``Oh!''} came the immediate reply. \emph{``Oh, of course! I have not spoken with her in too long. Right now?''}
+
+\emph{``If you have the bandwidth, yes.''}
+
+Rather than reply to my message directly, ey simply blinked into being in the entryway of my little townhouse. Had I some other guest over, perhaps it would have skitter-scattered and bounced around as it at times did, but you will remember, dear readers, that The Oneirotect was well-acquainted with the tenth stanza, and knew well that they dwelt comfortably in calm and quiet, and so she simply stepped lightly toward us, forking as ey went to pad up to both of us and give us each a hug. I leaned down to give a kiss between the skunklet's ears, ruffled up its already quite tousled mane, and smiled as she quit.\label{pronouns}
+
+``Hi, End Of Endings,'' they said, smiling up to The Woman.
+
+Once she had straightened up after returning the hug, The Woman smiled back down to them. ``Warmth In Fire, it is lovely to see you, as always. How are you keeping, these days?''
+
+``As best I can,'' ey said, tugging at the seat of a chair, raising it up, pulling and shaping until ey had a stool on which to sit, joining us around the table where we sat with our drinks, our water and our mochas. ``I was not expecting to get a message to come over and see you, though. How are you?''
+
+The Woman shrugged, the barest hint of her shoulders to go with an expression that bordered on unconcerned, as though the question were a valid one, but perhaps not worth answering. It was a very Talmudic shrug, you see, and, my friends, whenever one or the other of us pulls that off well, we feel \emph{quite} proud. ``My days are my days and my nights are my nights. I have things I wished to talk with you about, but beyond that, my life is simply my life.''
+
+The Oneirotect nodded. ``Okay. I am glad to hear that you are still living your life,'' she said with a grin, a brief, rhythmic sway of her tail providing accompaniment for the mood. ``What is it you wanted to talk about?''
+
+The Woman looked to me, so I took up the lead. I asked my beloved up-tree, ``Perhaps you could speak to what it is that you actually do my dear. What is it that you enjoy? We have been talking about such things.''
+
+``Well, I think of myself most of all as an aficionado of association, an oneirotect—a construct artist, if you must be such a bore,'' it answered. ``One must bring into being a careful synthesis of memories both sensory and emotive, yes? For that is the substance of significance, yes?''
+
+The Woman tilted her head in that way so familiar to us. ``Nostalgia, then?''
+
+``Yes!''
+
+``Is there a draw to that for you? Or is that something you find others hungering for?''
+
+The Oneirotect, clearly delighted by so simple a question, brought its paws together over the table, folded neat and prim. ``Yes, and also yes!'' It let the humor of that comment stew for a moment before offering something more worthy of the title `answer'. ``In the first decades of the System, it was necessary to create the stuff that makes up our consensual dream, yes? We desired to eat, but none had yet dreamt of food; we wished to surround ourselves with cherished things, but even the platonic form of such did not yet exist.
+
+``I find joy in creating these constructs—these \emph{things}, this \emph{stuff}, all that we interact with here—but most of all I enjoy the research that goes into that.''
+
+``I see,'' The Woman said. ``So you worked on early foods, then? On staples, or on more beloved things?''
+
+``I see you have done your own research, my dear.'' It offered a little bow, beaming up at The Woman. ``That, or Rye spilled the beans.''
+
+I chuckled, shrugged.
+
+``Very well. I favor culinary constructs now, but that has only become the case since I met Codrin. That said, I did begin with fruits we never got to try growing up in the Central Corridor. Most of the heavy lifting with staples had already been done by the time I began exploring oneirotecture, but there remained gaps in what was available. That experience was most formative, but it was Codrin's cooking that sent me down this path.''
+
+``Not \Partner? Not Codrin and Dear's partner?'' The Woman asked. She asked, of course, after one remembered fondly, and one whose name is not yours to know, dear readers, or perhaps you know it intimately, but with a wink and a nudge like a joke kept between us. ``Are they not the chef?''
+
+The Oneirotect smiled wryly. ``Well, sure, but my interest lies more in the food that others love to their core. \Partner's food is delightful, yes. It is \emph{enjoyable,} and often it is \emph{loved,} but it is not really \emph{beloved.}\label{rakoff} I would rather focus on the food those remember with fondness their mothers and grandmothers cooking. Remembered foods. Cherished foods, yes?''
+
+``I suppose this is where the nostalgia comes in, then, yes? Reaching back for the things that others loved, rather than simply ate out of necessity?''
+
+The Oneirotect tilted its head, unruly mane falling over its eyes. Out of instinct, I reached over to brush it back into some semblance of order and got a rather wet lick to my wrist for my trouble. My friends, my beloved up-tree is quite weird.
+
+``It is not as if none before me had dreamt of food just like grandma used to make, but what I offered was particularly attuned to that, yes.''
+
+``You speak of research and gaps in selections and beloved meals,'' I said. ``It sounds like you speak most of all of making things for others, or for all, rather than for yourself.''
+
+``For others, I would say. That bit of communalism implied by `all' did not come until much later. No, instead I drummed up interested parties from the feeds. These were the days that reputation and the markets had more meaning, yes? I still needed the rep for my work, for research into foods unfamiliar to me.'' They smiled wryly. ``I was not without, of course, for I had been dipping my toes into instance artistry beforehand, before Dear forked, yes? But still, I needed the reputation for research, and I needed the research for commissions others asked of me.''
+
+There was a moment of silence as The Woman parsed this, her gaze distant. When her focus returned, she said, ``\,`Before Dear forked'? Am I to infer that this is when you were Rye? Or am I missing something in the cladistics?''
+
+``I am not the first to be named Warmth In Fire,'' it answered with a note of melancholy.
+
+There was such a pang within me that I had not felt in ages, for The Oneirotect was right. There was some years back, some centuries back, another Which Offers Heat And Warmth In Fire. And then, one day, there was not. They worked and strove and wept and bled over their chosen path, and then they were naught.
+
+They—that other Warmth In Fire—was lost to us. They were gone from us. Their art took them from us, it killed them. Such is the danger of art, dear readers: it takes as easily—more easily!—than it gives. It was some centuries back, but-- ah! Centuries change only the flavor of the loss when one cannot forget it. It is a loss that still stings to this very day.
+
+``Ah,'' The Woman said, her expression falling subtly—nearly too subtly to notice, but by this point, I was quite focused on everything about her. ``Right. I remember hearing of a death within the clade early on. Systime 54, was it? I was rather disconnected from the clade at the time, I am sorry to say, and was unable to focus enough to learn of just who.''
+
+I nodded. ``But by then, Dear—or, rather the instance who would become Dear—had been forked, and so Warmth filled that vacancy. Ey took on the name Which Offers Heat And Warmth In Fire when Dear became what it is.''
+
+Warmth struggled to speak at first, caught up in emotion. It had been Dear at the time, and watched as who-was-Warmth descended into despair and, eventually, quit. Finally, it nodded, saying, ``I am that which was left behind when Dear chose to forget the Name.''
+
+Now, perhaps my younger uploads or those who have not stuck their noses deep into cladistics, snuffling about for interesting thises or surprising thats, may not quite understand the import here, and so I will tell you a story, much as it was told to me by The Instance Artist:
+
+Many years ago, it forked and went out for a walk along the street. It put the Name of our superlative friend, of The Dreamer who dreams us all, into an exocortex and then began to change. It forked and forked and forked as it walked that endless city that it called home at the time. It changed its shape, from stocky to slight. It changed its species. It changed its sense of smell, its sense of sight. It changed its hearing—and you must understand, as a fennec, its ears are enormous; when it gives a shake of its head, its tall ears bow under the momentum. It changed the way it thought about our history. It changed the way it thought about forking. It changed the way it engaged with everything around it.
+
+Its goal was to change its sensorium enough that it would not be able to access the Name of our beloved Dreamer again.
+
+Tired, it trudged back home. It could have simply stepped back, yes, but this was a part of the ritual. It had to see the way it had come through these new senses.
+
+There was its back-up fork, sitting and reading and trying to distract herself from its absence. She looked like me, dear readers, yes? Back as I did then? Dear looked like me when it started, after all.
+
+She looked up from her book, quirked a brow, and smiled.
+
+``You may quit whenever,'' The Instance Artist had said. ``I am happy now.''
+
+She stood, bowed, and shook her head, and then she stepped from the sim.
+
+It did not see her for months after that. None of us did. Weeks and months of knowing that she was out there but knowing aught else aside from that.
+
+It did not talk to her, friends, you must understand. It did not talk to her, and she did not talk to it, other than a notification that she would be taking the name Which Offers Heat And Warmth In Fire.
+
+``I sat with a good book while it took that dire walk between skunk and fennec, and when it returned, it had become something unrecognizable to me. I could see the direction it took, but not the road it followed; it had become something alien, and the prospect of disappearing after that felt rather a lot more like dying than becoming, and so I chose to yield my name to it—for that Dear was that of me who had already become, yes?—and spent some months working to earn the name Warmth In Fire.''
+
+The Woman furrowed her brow in that ineffably still way of hers. ``I remember that there was talk within the clade about names, yes, and the general shape of what had happened, that there was some furor about the fact that a down-tree might accept a later line than an up-tree, though I never did understand the import that some placed on that.'' There was a smile, a hint of a bow, and a quiet addition: ``You are so incredibly yourself, though, I cannot picture you as ever having been a Dear, and certainly never as a fennec.''
+
+There followed a moment of The Oneirotect visibly mastering a note of annihilation upon hearing this. It was, I think, one of those things which hurts to hear, and yet which is completely right: ey is not yet another instance of The Instance Artist, nor has ey been for centuries, and yet there is that of The Instance Artist still within em, is there not? ``When I stepped from that sim,'' ey explained, ``I did so with the commitment, both to myself and to it, that what was Dear had changed, and that who was Dear must embrace that. I am unsure, however, that I have ever quite addressed the fact that, often when I hear about Dear from others, there is a rankling within me. Sometimes, when I am feeling particularly bad about myself, I feel like it stole my very name from me. I feel like a leftover, a shadow on the floor of the stage of my own show.''
+
+``The clade will ever be as it is,'' I said, tagging along with that thought, ``which is a bunch of crotchety old creatures with a fixation on names that borders on neurotic. Do not doubt that this applies to our stanza as well.''
+
+The Woman smirked, nodded.
+
+``There were those within the clade who fussed and fussed and fussed, and I would be remiss if I did not say that we had—and, as Warmth mentions, continue to fuss—about the role that names play in identity. We will ever be who we are, though, yes?''
+
+My beloved up-tree spent some time pensively structuring its thoughts, trying to reclaim some sort of agency before it fell into a negativity spiral; such topics as these are always especially difficult for us to stumble across, and it had already started to recite some of those familiar phrases it so often repeats even to this day. ``You have come to Rye and I searching for joy through creativity. I wonder: What do you imagine yourself to be, End Of Endings, other than the only one living there I get to call `kitty' from time to time?''
+
+The Woman laughed—and what a blessing a laugh is in comparison to a smile!—and, with no effort expended on her own part, fell right into that very shape: a kitty. Kitty! And what a delightful little name. You will remember, my friends, that not every instance of her changing shape was occasion for weariness or discomfort; she fell joyfully into felinity, into this pantherine shape. ``I like that you call me kitty, my dear,'' she said, still smiling. ``And I am always happy when I think of becoming such as occasion for you to do so.''
+
+It beamed, smug and sly and looking quite pleased for the change it had had a paw in working. It was very \emph{not} Dear in that moment—it was (and is!) very Warmth In Fire because, while it shared some of that quippiness that Dear was so well-known for, Dear shared little of my `motherly warmth', as it put it. Dear did not inherit such from me—or perhaps had lost it over long years with too many quips—but my beloved up-tree did.
+
+Here was The Oneirotect being warm. Here was The Oneirotect being insightful and supportive. Here was her taking control for The Woman's sake. Here was it looking for some way to stop trauma-dumping on her and start guiding her closer toward self-understanding, toward a resolution, toward peace.
+
+``But no, I imagine myself being other than just She Who Is Kitty From Time To Time. I imagine myself as someone who has found a purpose within her life other than, as Rejoice put it, simply being one who is built to suffer. Suffering may well be inescapable, but would that I were aught else than She Who Suffers.''
+
+``Is that what you feel you are now, my dear?'' The Oneirotect asked, her tone veering further into direness once more, her words filled with ache and earnestness. ``Do you not find joy in each day? Each hour? You, and all the others in that melancholy home of yours, have committed to perhaps the world's direst bit, but it is worth it, in the end, is it not? There is still tomorrow, and the opportunity it offers, is there not?''
+
+The Woman sat with this in thoughtfulness, her expression perhaps now distant, perhaps now curious. Her gaze drifted from my beloved up-tree to me, and then somewhere over my shoulder, out toward the far wall, toward the door, and then panned once more over toward the windows, where the leaves of spring fluttered in a pleasant visual static.
+
+When once more her eyes returned to us, her expression had settled into what, I do not know exactly. Pensive? Introspective? I cannot say, dear readers. I cannot say.
+
+``I do feel joy, yes. I think that one of the things that sparked this train of thought was actually one such case of joy. I visited No Hesitation for a simple coffee date, and from there I was left with joy that lasted some few days. It was a comfort to me.'' The faintest of smiles turned up the corners of her mouth. ``No, it was not just a comfort, it was a thing I clung to jealously, and when I felt that it was being slowly parceled out to others at home—for they too deserve joy—and when I was asked about it by Ever Dream, I felt as though it was slipping away from me with no recourse. Is joy to always do such? Every time I receive such joy, is it only to slip away?''
+
+There was a sense then in The Oneirotect of discomfort at this sentiment: that joy is fleeting. It had worked so hard to become able to appreciate the joys it had, despite the equally-ephemeral agonies it suffered at the hands of perfectionism and impostor syndrome—as do we all at times, yes?
+
+``It will always be true that you shared that comfort together, End Of Endings,'' she said, my own maternal concern echoed in its voice, so many hours spent helping hold eir head above water while they wallowed in a spiral of self-loathing. ``What is it that slipped away?''
+
+``The\ldots{}'' The Woman started, then immediately fell off into silence. There was a frown on her face, though it was one of concentration rather than consternation. ``What it feels has slipped away is the possibility of the permanence of joy, or even joy that lasts longer than suffering. I suppose that is what I am seeking in this exercise. I am seeking joy that lasts. Even if not forever, I am seeking joy that lasts. I am seeking intentionality in joy. I am seeking agency in joy.''
+
+My beloved up-tree was along for the ride up until the word `agency,' at which it scrunched up its face and reared eir head back as though someone had—as often I have done—pressed on the tip of her little nose—or, it is not so little; it is a big honker of a schnoz as some cartoon might have. How often had ey struggled for its own agency? How often pawing feebly at a thing for years and years and feeling as if nothing it made met its own standards? How often wallowing and feeling helpless but to wallow? How often caught in a spate of ineffectual pining, of disinterest born of despair, of the sort of pain that festers and festers until she broke down into tears and overflowed? Ah--! But it replied, ``Is the pain as well not itself as fleeting? Does it not fly away in the wind when a gust of joy blows your way? Does despair not crumble at the feet of relief, euphoria, pleasure? Is it not dashed away on the rocks of even one moment of the right kind of comfort?'' It fell silent for a moment, gaze drifting outward toward those very same leaves as caught the Woman's eye. ``It is still worth it, is it not? It must be worth it, or else all the world's a horror.''\label{shakespeare}
+
+Here, now, was a moment of quiet between us all as The Oneirotect grappled with its silently tearful emotions. I have spoken of the ways in which we cry, the whys and wherefores, the shamelessness of it all, and so it grappled with its own whys and wherefores, its own shamelessness, and we—The Woman and I—looked on with curiousity and compassion and empathy, for we felt also some of these things.
+
+Here, my friends, I must explain something. I must explain the Warmth In Fire before Warmth In Fire. I must explain The Sightwright who is no more.
+
+It is as my beloved up-tree says: we also suffer. Have I not spoken of such? Of course I have! I cannot but! I cannot help myself in this.
+
+The Sightwright suffered as I do, as The Oneirotect does, and perhaps even as The Woman did.\label{winthrop} It was so long ago that they left us, left me, and though I remember, I remember through the lens of centuries, through a glass, darkly.\label{1cor13} They suffered because of their art. They suffered because of the world around them. They suffered perhaps because we are all built to suffer.
+
+They suffered as do my beloved up-tree and I, but they also suffered as did—I must explain, also, or perhaps remind—Death Itself and I Do Not Know.
+
+They quit.
+
+They suffered too much. They were, and then they were not.
+
+I must explain and I must remind to set before you the context of what The Oneirotect said next.
+
+My beloved up-tree's tears did not ebb before ey spoke. No, in fact, they flowed and flowed, a cascade of emotion trickling and then creeping and then washing across its face. I have spoken about the way I cry already, and, well, surely they got it from somewhere, yes? ``There has been enough of death in the clade, my dear,'' it plead, wiping its eyes to no avail. Fur remained wet. Nose remained clogged. Voice remained round. Ey pulled eir paws away from eir face, looking appalled at the strands of spit and snot and salty tears. ``You do not intend to quit, do you?'' it croaked through another sob, voice small. ``You will be with us for a good while yet, right? Please say yes.''
+
+The Woman smiled, and this smile was not a blessing but a benediction, and it was not for me but for solely The Oneirotect. It was my job only to witness this smile, this validation of pain. ``No, dear one. I do not intend to quit.'' She let these words hang there in the air before us, a monument to such an intent. ``No, I am seeking not just meaning but purpose. I have explored meaningful things and pleasurable things, but now I wish to explore direction.''
+
+The Oneirotect is not The Child, but my beloved up-tree is also my very own little one. With this comes at least some of the baggage of being small, including tears that seem to flow with an outsized force. So overcome by the base reality of a good, hard cry was it that ey could not help but laugh at emself. ``Oh, good!'' she managed, sucking back what ick she could. ``I will hold you to that. If you quit, I will wipe this snot all over your headstone! It will cake itself between the grooves of your epitaph. It will dry there in the cracks and no dandelions will grow upon its stony bed; it will be the worst!''
+
+At this, The Woman and I smiled. There perhaps was also room for laughter, but a simpler acknowledgment was required for now. A box of tissues was summoned. Glasses of water. Hugs and soft pets and gentle kisses between the ears such as might offer comfort. Such are the realities of a good cry, yes? The distasteful and the compassionate realities both? They are as worthy of acknowledgment as the reality of breath, sys-side. We do not cease being subject to our gross anatomy.
+
+``A reminder: art is not strictly joy, but also suffering,'' I cautioned most gently. ``With art comes fear.\label{artandfear} There is suffering of a sort in failure. There is suffering in falling short, as well; even if you succeed in an endeavor in your own eyes, you may feel the pain of lack.'' Despite her expectant silence, I held up a paw as though to forestall comments, for even movement is communication. ``You are strong, End Of Endings, and I know—I think we know—that you are up to such a task, but I must remind you as well.''
+
+The Woman bowed her head, though whether in acknowledgment or a pensive shift in her thoughts, I could not tell. Perhaps it was both. Perhaps she felt then as I have so much lately: as though the world is not quite as it seems, as though there is something more beneath or above. Perhaps she felt keenly our superlative friend. ``I understand, of course. I suppose that has also been the case in my explorations of late, that there ever be this balance.'' She lifted her head to smile wryly. ``There is, as you say, suffering in many things, but the suffering of failure carries a particular tang of disappointment, does it not?''
+
+The Oneirotect finally recomposed itself, reassured of The Woman's longevity. ``Yes,'' she answered most bluntly. ``Emphatically, yes. And yet, after nearly two and a half centuries, I am still doing it. Rye, you still write your stories, yes? Serene, she yet weaves her wilds, yes?'' Its cadence fired up, its tone almost a challenge, daring End Of Endings to oppose this conviction forged in agony. ``I still dream up my little wonders and Dry Grass still keeps them on her mantle and those who I will never know still greedily gobble their favored food from my work on the Exchange.''
+
+She paused, planting its paws between its knees to lean forward in eir seat. ``There is vanity in art, and it is in vanity that we artists dwell. We mean to expose some part of ourselves, and there is torture in knowing \emph{precisely} how wrong every act has turned out.'' The Oneirotect's fervor softened into something more familiar to me, more an expression of shared adversity than the bitter lesson of so many shattered dreams littering the waters in its wake. ``That is why we must do this for more than ourselves, End Of Endings, why our art must have its own value lest we fall into the perpetual pursuit of some cruel point.''
+
+The Woman tilted her head—that habit that so often follows each and every one of us around like a little puppy. ``You mean to consider my audience?''
+
+I wobbled a paw. ``While that is perhaps some of it—a great deal, even, as that validation does drive one on—there is more to art than that.'' I am not ashamed to say that I fall so easily back into that teacher mode of speaking. We were such for how many years, phys-side? And I have been such off and on for how many more, here? ``You speak of purpose: it is also the sharing of what goes \emph{into} art, too. I write for myself, yes, for the joy of it, and I write for others, too. But if my failures are instructive, then shall I not also pass that instruction on to others? I teach. I write \emph{with} others. I read and give feedback.''
+
+At this she smiled. ``Teaching has stuck with us, after all. You have already mentioned communalism, too.''
+
+``Yes, that is it!'' The Oneirotect said, a bright smile plastered across its face. ``Have we not all of us in our hearts our own little shrines to \emph{communitas?} I want for every person on Lagrange to be able to do what we do, to weave dreams tangible or otherwise into being with the ease of centuries of experience. I want for them to enjoy the food of their lives back phys-side, to imagine what flavors the Artemisians indulge, to draw up from memory the last best moment they ever beheld. That is why I go with Jove and Why Ask Questions to their little skillshare, yes, but it is also why I have taken a liking to oneiro-impressionism. I do not want for this to be so hard for everyone forever.
+
+``It is just as industry made our lives gentler, yes?'' ey went on, tone shifting further into something perilously close to exhaustion. The pain it was tanking to explain itself to The Woman was plain to see on its face as it grappled with eir own doubts. It spoke with confidence to her, but The Oneirotect spoke also to itself, and I am proud to say that in the years that followed, this conversation proved fruitful for at least one of us.
+
+``Let us discover some secret hidden in AwDae's little world,'' it mused, eyes steady on The Woman. ``Let us find a way to render pedestrian what is, at present, an expert's privilege.''
+
+I am \emph{proud} of em. I am as proud as any mother, as any attentive aunt, as any family member must be. They continually amaze me with just how much they have done with their life. She delights me with with her attentiveness to the audience of her art.
+
+It, too, fills me with commiseration with its exhaustion, for such is also as I have felt in the ways that I move through the world and I move through my life and I move through my art. I have spoken and doubtless will speak yet more about my overflow, my graphomania, and will whine forever about the pain that comes with it, the feelings of inadequacy and lack when I consider as well that others will willingly read my words. Would that-- ah! But I wander\ldots{}
+
+``I had not thought to question what art I might create provides to others,'' The Woman said after a silent moment's thought. ``Now that I say that aloud, I am a little ashamed that I had not considered it. Much of this exercise that I have been undertaking has been focused on \emph{my} joy, on what \emph{I} might gain from being able to pick up from this or that, whether it be hedonism or love or art.''
+
+The sheepishness in her tone, dear readers, cut. I ached for her, even if she herself in that moment once more wore that blessed wry smile.
+
+Beyond that, though, did I not also have thoughts on this? Did I not also have feelings on caring for oneself? The Golden Rule must also apply to oneself. We, too, deserve to be treated as we might treat others. It is the Silver Rule, perhaps, that the Golden Rule be inverted. Others are worthy of consideration when we think of our work, and yet\ldots and yet\ldots{}
+
+And yet.
+
+``It is no bad thing to consider those first, my dear,'' I said. ``One must remember oneself first, though certainly not to the exclusion of others, of community. You cannot, after all, give to your community if you are unable to give, yes? The Golden Rule applies also to you, yes? You must treat \emph{yourself} well, yes?''
+
+She chuckled and gave a nod of acknowledgment. ``Of course, Rye. I should not rush to judge this exploration so harshly this soon.'' Her shoulders sagged, then, and the ache within me swelled. ``Perhaps I am simply sick of this suffering that Rejoice speaks of. Perhaps I am ready to move away from it. Not to quit, but to find some new basis for myself.''
+
+``And you are testing art as this new basis? Creating things, whatever that may be?''
+
+She nodded. ``I remain split on it, as yet. It is more complicated than I had imagined, given what you two have said, yes? It is much like Slow Hours's and Beholden's full-attention reading and listening. It takes the whole of me and is exhausting. I am exhausted even at the thought of starting.''
+
+I thought back to my first creations, to the first stories and poems and novels that I wrote, back when I was still learning how to forge and how also to hone, and laughed. ``Oh, my dear, it is exhausting to \emph{remember} starting. I will let you leave with one of my first stories. Thank goodness I did not allow it to see the light of day.''
+
+``That tiring, then?''
+
+I nodded. ``Beyond tiring. I do not know how it felt for Warmth, but for me, I would move in fits and starts, now loving my art and now feeling like it was trash, that I was treading already trod ground, that it was derivative. I suppose I had to learn how to learn, first, but even after that. I wanted to have become a great author, without going through the becoming part.''
+
+The Oneirotect snickered, resting a paw on my knee. ``I had the advantage of your example to learn from,'' she started, looking to End Of Endings. ``And my predecessor's. I \emph{started} easily enough, but the despair of mediocrity ever tainted my motivation. That first week was full to brimming with excitement, that second worthy but deprived of euphoria, and on the third I inevitably stumbled into a wallowing spiral until the fourth, when I swore I would never try again, only for a new ambition to spring up the next.'' It shook its head, as though in disbelief at itself. I found it understandable, dear readers, and perhaps you do as well. Even after three hundred years, the ambition always returns. Perhaps it was not disbelief, then, that led my beloved up-tree to shake eir head, but a world-weary recognition of this—but I digress. ``I have not improved very much at all in this respect; it is agony, but it has at least turned out to be sustainable. I only wish it did not \emph{hurt} so much.''
+
+Furrowing her brow, The Woman looked down to her glass of water. ``More complicated, indeed,'' she murmured, more to herself than anything—so evidently so that my beloved up-tree and I let her have that moment for herself, as though hesitant to interrupt it. ``You speak of works you would not let see the light of day, Rye, and of the pain of creation. You both clearly still find meaning in it—as do Slow Hours and Beholden, of course, and Motes—so I am left wondering what one does with these feelings of\ldots ah, I hesitate to say, but perhaps they are feelings of unworthiness. What does one do when one's works feel mediocre, especially if one is to create also for others?''
+
+It took me some time to disentangle The Woman's words. They were starting to fall into a jumble, into a garden path of wanderings. Perhaps you may even sense that in me, friends, the ways in which my words wander, their circuitous routes, though I do not think that she was nearly so taken with language as I am, or at least not in quite the same way. I think she was simply tired. She certainly looked it, with the slump of her shoulders and the drowsiness in her features she nonetheless seemed intent on masking.
+
+``I imagine it is different for every artist,'' I said most carefully, hesitant to in any way push The Woman away from any art she might wish to start. ``For me, I keep all of my writing. I have exos full to overflowing with snippets and ideas, abandoned drafts, outlines I never got to. I am a bit of a packrat, in that way, and I am not sorry. I spoke before of learning to learn, and the utility of using that learning, and I think that is what I try to draw from them. There is that which I have created that only I value, yes, but its utility is in what it gives in improving going forward or in teaching.''
+
+The answer felt less than satisfactory, or perhaps not quite as true as it could have been, for there was work of mine that I loved for this utility and yet was unwilling to publish, not now, not work from when I was in the novitiate in my art. There is work of mine even now that I hate, that I loathe for, as The Oneirotect said, the wallowing spiral that spawned it and it makes me wonder, and at times it makes me tremble, that I must say there is worth in art when so much of mine feels worthless.
+
+``End Of Endings, my dear,'' The Oneirotect said, slipping down from her stool, ``I am beginning to see myself in you, and that fills me with fear. You have promised me that you do not intend to quit, but if there \emph{is} that of death in you, whatever art you choose will bring you perilously close to the brink time and time and time again.'' It padded up beside The Woman, placing both paws on her knees and looking up into her face. ``Tell me, kitty, is it better to disappear into a blizzard, or should someone lay down their weary bones in a grave when they are through?''

idumea/content/006.tex

@@ -18,7 +18,7 @@ The Woman and her superlative friend moved together as one. They were the same p
 
 The Woman and her superlative friend, when next they clicked their implants into place and delved into the familiar second home that was the 'net, they were shunted away into dreams and left there to wilt, to languish, to desiccate and wither and be blown away by who cared what wind. They were knocked a meter to the right and back in some metaphorical way, their immersive tech refusing to relinquish its grip on their reality so that, from the outside, they only slept, and yet within, they dreamed along the filaments of those implants, trapped within that hardware, for the nature of getting lost was a coma mediated by integrated technology. They were both torn asunder in some ineffable way. For Michelle who was Sasha, those two identities were carved apart—though only halfway—and, when her superlative friend, her beloved RJ, gave of emself to create the world that was Lagrange, a System for those minds who chose to upload, she dove after em in as soon as she could afford.
 
-The Woman and her superlative friend were ever bound up in each other, for they were the same person twice over, and since this world was in some ineffable way made \emph{of} em, Michelle who was Sasha and The Woman who was Michelle felt she had no other choice, even if the unique trauma of getting lost meant that she ever felt that split, that inextricable Sasha-ness and Michelle-ness that someone, some bureaucrat that wanted her lost, inadvertently tried to reify, and it was not until the ability to fork was added to the System that she was able to alleviate herself of such. Or, if not herself, at least she could ensure that those new copies of herself, the Ode clade, would be without such pain.
+The Woman and her superlative friend were ever bound up in each other, for they were the same person twice over, and since this world was in some ineffable way made \emph{of} em, Michelle who was Sasha and The Woman who was Michelle felt she had no other choice, even if the unique trauma of getting lost meant that she ever felt that split, that inextricable Sasha-ness and Michelle-ness that someone, some bureaucrat that wanted her lost, inadvertently tried to reify, and it was not until the ability to fork—to copy oneself and multiply, to let instances merge back down or to continue on and become their own people—was added to the System that she was able to alleviate herself of such. Or, if not herself, at least she could ensure that those new copies of herself, the Ode clade, would be without such pain.
 
 The Woman and her clade were never wholly without, for such is the way of trauma, yes?
 
@@ -30,9 +30,9 @@ The Woman wandered far from home. She picked a direction—east, if the entrance
 
 She remembered these things, and I remember these things, just as I, in dreams, remember the sands beneath my feet and the rattle of dry grass in the wind and the names of all things and forget them only when I wake. She wandered the field and lay down and looked at the stars and bathed in memories and I pace the empty rooms of my home, listening to nothing, looking at nothing, clenching and unclenching my fists as I struggle not to reach for my pen, my paper, and instead write in my head.
 
-Why do we so often do this? Why are there times when, overflowing or not, we wrap ourselves up in our memories like the most comforting blanket in the world, and yet still cry? Why do we cry after loved ones? Why do we cry after ourselves? Why do we look up to the stars—stars we made!—and cry so bitterly? Why do the tears leave tracks in the fur on our cheeks or down over the skin of our faces? Why do birds, as the poet says, suddenly appear every time we feel such nearness as is left of our superlative friend?
+Why do we so often do this? Why are there times when, overflowing or not, we wrap ourselves up in our memories like the most comforting blanket in the world, and yet still cry? Why do we cry after loved ones? Why do we cry after ourselves? Why do we look up to the stars—stars we made!—and cry so bitterly? Why do the tears leave tracks in the fur on our cheeks or down over the skin of our faces? Why do birds, as the poet says, suddenly appear every time\label{birds} we feel such nearness as is left of our superlative friend?
 
-The Woman lay in the grass of the field and dug her fingers down into the soil between the blades, clutching perhaps a dandelion.
+The Woman lay in the grass of that sweet field arrayed in living green\label{sweet-prospect} and dug her fingers down into the soil between the blades, clutching perhaps a dandelion.
 
 When Michelle who was Sasha was lost, when she was set aside from the world as something undesirable, some anathema, she was placed within a dream and left to rot.
 
@@ -44,7 +44,7 @@ But The Woman who was Michelle who was Sasha would not let that happen. She \emp
 
 And then, one day, her superlative friend disappeared. Days went by, and weeks, and then before the month was out, she received a letter detailing the ways in which ey hoped to move forward, how ey would likely die, but at least ey would die in the act of creation, of making a new world of utter freedom, where dreaming together was the warp of the world, and intent the weft, and ey both succeeded and failed, for now the world in which we live is one woven from dreams and intent, but ey is absent. It was in that letter that ey had written the ode that became the source of our names, and so we live out our lives embodying these fragments of em, but even still, ey failed because ey is absent. Ey became the weaver.
 
-And still, ey succeeded. Ey succeeded because ey became the loom. Ey became the fabric. Ey became the shuttle and the pirn and the batten and the comb and the heddle, and the world is the lathe and we are the treadles working and working and working and we feel em beneath our fingertips as they trace along the weave, but ey is not here.
+And still, ey succeeded. Ey succeeded because ey became the loom while we became the fabric. Ey became the shuttle and the pirn and the batten and the comb and the heddle, and the world is the lathe and we are the treadles working and working and working and we feel em beneath our fingertips as they trace along the weave, but ey is not here.
 
 But I digress.
 
@@ -70,7 +70,7 @@ What is one to do when faced with the enormity of love? What subtle powers does
 
 The Woman and I and all of our kin have not always had the best of luck with love, nor with standing up for ourselves. When I say that we have more traumas than simply getting lost, our unluck in love accounts for some sizeable portion of this.
 
-We struggled with the role that our bodies played, yes? For Michelle who was Sasha was short—as we are—and she was fat—as many of us remain—and she was so-called blessed with breasts to match. So-called by those who wished to in some way claim ownership of them. When she pursued a reduction, her back thanked her and those who bestowed such praise wondered why why why she would withhold that goodness from them.
+We struggled with the role that our bodies played, yes? For Michelle who was Sasha was short—as we are—and she was fat—as many of us remain—and she was so-called blessed with breasts to match; so called by those who wished to in some way claim ownership of them. When she pursued a reduction, her back thanked her and those who bestowed such praise wondered why why why she would withhold that goodness from them.
 
 And yet even that did not stop such attention, for we were, it seems, worth a certain set of things to others—to those beyond our friends and our superlative friend with whom we remain in love—and so why would they hunt for aught else?
 
@@ -116,7 +116,7 @@ She returned home after that talk with me and my beloved up-tree, with your humb
 
 My dear, dear friends, the longer I go on, the more I pace around through quiet rooms the more these words swirl around me in some quiet maelstrom, the more I wish that I could do the same. Sleep brings no relief. Within my dreams there are yet more words. The boundary between waking and sleeping is so faint, now—I write even in my sleep! My dreams are of The Woman! My dreams are of me sitting at my desk with my pen in my paw and paper before me, of ink on page and words flowing after like an eager puppy!—the boundary is so faint now that I have more than once awoken from uneasy sleep to found that I had indeed at some point sat down at my desk and written word after word after word, after word and word and word. I have found pages of endlessly repeating phrases. I have found scribbles that are doubtless words and yet which I cannot decipher, and I cannot remember my dreams well enough to say what they may have been.
 
-Did The Woman dream, we may wonder? Did she lay down and sleep after that conversation and look up to the constellations in the fabric of the sky, close her eyes, and then let play within her head some scene, some dream within a dream within a dream within a dream, some stream of meaning that the subconscious mind as dreamed by The Dreamer of the world dreamed forth?
+Did The Woman dream, we may wonder? Did she lay down and sleep after that conversation and look up to the constellations in the fabric of the sky, close her eyes, and then let play within her head some scene, some dream within a dream within a dream within a dream,\label{to-} some stream of meaning that the subconscious mind as dreamed by The Dreamer of the world dreamed forth?
 
 I do not know.
 
@@ -128,13 +128,13 @@ For she is our Pinocchio, is she not? She is our Pinocchio in reverse. She is th
 
 The Woman then had her inciting incident, did she not? She had that moment when she met with Her Friend and felt after some form of joy that she could not quite put into words, and with that joy, against that joy, she felt the loss of joy over time, the way it was secreted within the treats that she delivered quietly to her cocladists and the way it seemed to trickle out of her life. And the second part of this incitation was the way that this fading of joy was cast against the stasis of her stanza, the suffering supposedly bestowed upon them. It showed to her plainly the impermanence of such joys, and thus, by omission, the possibility of a permanent pleasure.
 
-She is and we are of a neurodivergent type, and so her approach to hunting for such joy as she imagined was of such a type as that: thorough and curious, methodical and whimsical. She set before herself by rule of fives five investigations: food, sex, entertainment, creation, and change. The first four of these brought joy, and even superlative joy, but not the joy she sought, and before her lay the prospect of change, and yet such a prospect was exhausting before she had even begun.
+She is and we are of a neurodivergent type, and so her approach to hunting for such joy as she imagined was of such a type as that: thorough and curious, methodical and whimsical. She set before herself by rule of fives five investigations: food, sex, entertainment, creation, and change. The first four of these brought joy, and even superlative joy, but not the joy she sought, not the stillness she sought, and before her lay the prospect of change, and yet such a prospect was exhausting before she had even begun.
 
 And so now we may only guess at the dreams of one such as her, one who lives within our consensual dream, one who is dreamed by The Dreamer who was at one point our superlative friend.
 
 Here is my supposition:
 
-The Woman went walking. In her dream, she went walking, though it was not out on her field, the one we have seen so often. No, instead she went walking out her bedroom and through her secret door, out through the door and onto the street of the city that had become so familiar to her over the years, that city with the brick pavers and the fallen leaves which skittered so anxiously around her feet. She went walking in her dream and made her way through unnervingly empty city streets, walking and walking and walking. She passed the trolley stops. She passed the coffee shops. She passed, perhaps, the setting sun.
+The Woman went walking. In her dream, she went walking, though it was not out on her field, the one we have seen so often. No, instead she went walking out her bedroom and through her secret door, out through the door and onto the street of the city that had become so familiar to her over the years, that city with the brick pavers and the fallen leaves which skittered so anxiously around her feet. She went walking in her dream and made her way through unnervingly empty city streets, walking and walking and walking. She passed the trolley stops. She passed the coffee shops. She passed, perhaps, the setting sun.\label{stop-for-death}
 
 And at some final point—final!—she came across a square set within the cement of the sidewalk perhaps two meters on a side where the concrete gave way to a metal grate in the form of a sunburst, and in the middle there was a circle of soil, good and clean.
 
@@ -148,7 +148,7 @@ This is my supposition for The Woman and her dream after she came home from my h
 
 \secdiv
 
-The longer we live—and, my dear readers, I will remind you that I am now 323 years old!—the more evident it becomes to us that there is a fractally cyclical nature to life: the years spiral up and the months spiral around and the days spiral forward—weeks are a construct borne out of our inherited faith but perhaps they too spiral—and so we live within a fractally cyclical tangle of time.
+The longer we live—and, my dear readers, I will remind you that I am now 323 years old!—the more evident it becomes to us that there is a fractally cyclical nature to life: the years spiral up and the months spiral around and the days spiral forward—weeks are a construct borne out of our inherited faith but perhaps they too spiral—and so we live within a fractally cyclical tangle of time.\label{florilegium}
 
 I know this. You know this, I am sure, on however instinctual a level, for you are clever and bright and you see the world with fresher eyes than I have. You are cleverer and brighter and fresher than your humble narrator who paces the empty rooms of her house and fills them with the quiet muttering of the mad.
 

idumea/content/007.tex

@@ -1,8 +1,8 @@
-When at last The Woman returned home, she performed a new ritual. She performed a ritual of mourning.
+When at last The Woman returned home from her walk of hours and hours and a day, she performed a new ritual. She performed a ritual of mourning.
 
-This, you see, was the start of her final task. Her set of five tasks, of food, of physical pleasure, of entertainment, of creation, of change was not quite complete, and had within it one more step, and she felt most a connection to the spiritual in the act of mourning and hoped in that to seek change.
+This, you see, was the first pawings at her final task. Her set of five tasks, of food, of physical pleasure, of entertainment, of creation, of change was not quite complete, and had within it one more step, and she felt most a connection to the spiritual in the act of mourning and hoped in that to seek change.
 
-My friends, I think it may well have been our conversation, that of The Woman and The Oneirotect and I, that set her mind thus in motion, for was it not then that we spoke so freely of my beloved up-tree and the way it mourned over Should We Forget? Did not the pair of long lost tenth stanza lines come up as well? Death Itself and I Do Not Know? They, too, perhaps felt some of this too-full-ness that The Woman struggles with, for back and back and back and back and back and back, six decades back, they lay still in thought and, before long, before the week was up, quit. They bowed out. They dipped. Committed suicide. Quit the big one. They push now up some perhaps daisies perhaps columbines perhaps nasturtiums\label{nasturtiums} in the mind of The Dreamer who dreams us all.
+My friends, I think it may well have been our conversation, that of The Woman and The Oneirotect and I, that set her mind thus in motion, for was it not then that we spoke so freely of my beloved up-tree and the way it mourned over Should We Forget? Did not the pair of long lost tenth stanza lines come up as well? Death Itself and I Do Not Know? They, too, perhaps felt some of this too-full-ness that The Woman struggles with, for back and back and back and back and back and back, six decades back, they lay still in thought and, before long, before the week was up, quit. They bowed out. They dipped. Committed suicide. Quit the big one. They push now up some perhaps daisies perhaps dandelions perhaps columbines perhaps nasturtiums\label{nasturtiums} in the mind of The Dreamer who dreams us all.
 
 There is loss in our lives and in our hearts and in our minds.
 
@@ -26,7 +26,7 @@ The Woman pushed the door open and bowed. ``Rejoice.''
 
 ``I would like to sit by Death Itself's bed for a few minutes.''
 
-Her Cocladist, halfway through setting her book aside, froze, and a wash of skunk spiraled up along her form, only to be replaced yet again by humanity, black fur sprouting, wilting, fading only to be replaced by skin. ``Why?''
+Her Cocladist, halfway through setting her book aside, froze, and a wash of skunk spiraled up along her form, only to be replaced yet again by humanity, black fur sprouting, wilting, fading, leaving only skin. ``Why?''
 
 The Woman stood still in the doorway. ``Because I am sad, and because I miss her.''
 
@@ -38,7 +38,7 @@ Along the other wall—that wall that had been hidden to the woman—was a simpl
 
 The Woman had her own ritual of grief to perform, though, and this did not call for touching the bed.
 
-Instead, she sat down near the end of it, across the room from Her Cocladist, for both beds had at their feet matching beanbags—when you have a tail that flickers into being at moments not under your control, you are limited in your seating, you see, to the types of seats that can accommodate such caudal majesty that skunks sport—where once Her Cocladist and Should We Forget would sit at times and talk and share in kindnesses such as touch when their forms permitted.
+Instead, she sat down near the end of it, across the room from Her Cocladist, for both beds had at their feet matching beanbags—when you have a tail that flickers into being at moments not under your control, you are limited in your seating, you see, to the types of seats that can accommodate such caudal majesty that skunks sport—where once Her Cocladist and Death Itself would sit at times and talk and share in kindnesses such as touch when their forms permitted.
 
 There, The Woman remained still.
 
@@ -70,7 +70,7 @@ Perhaps she spoke to The Dreamer who dreams us all, perhaps not, but either way,
 
 \label{thedog1}
 
-The Woman sat down on the floor by The Dog. She knew he was a cladist, for cladists come in many shapes---did she not also appear as a skunk? And a panther? And now, here, she was a human!---and so hoped he might have insight into unbecoming. This, after all, was the purpose of her visit to Le Rêve, the neighborhood of the fifth stanza, that of The Poet and The Musician and My Friend, and also The Child. It was The Child who was her goal, you see. She wished to speak with those who had changed, who had pushed themselves into new molds, who had become something new, that they might no longer be what had once drove them. Stillness lay in choice---that was the thought she held onto---that is the thought that I wish I could believe; would that I could choose to be still! Would that I could choose silence and images instead of yet more words.
+The Woman sat down on the floor by The Dog some days later, a week later. She knew he was a cladist, for cladists come in many shapes---did she not also appear as a skunk? And a panther? And now, here, she was a human!---and so hoped he might have insight into unbecoming. This, after all, was the purpose of her visit to Le Rêve, the neighborhood of the fifth stanza, that of The Poet and The Musician and My Friend, and also The Child. It was The Child who was her goal, you see. She wished to speak with those who had changed, who had pushed themselves into new molds, who had become something new, that they might no longer be what had once drove them. Stillness lay in choice---that was the thought she held onto---that is the thought that I wish I could believe; would that I could choose to be still! Would that I could choose silence and images instead of yet more words.
 
 The Dog had attached himself to Au Lieu Du Rêve, to the theatre troupe and to the fifth stanza, to His Skunks, some time ago. He spent many lazy days among them, many evenings dozing by the kettlecorn stand in the theater lobby in the hopes of someone dropping their snacks, many frantic minutes carrying The Child's latest core dump to the resident systech after she yet again in a bout of play had crashed.
 
@@ -108,7 +108,7 @@ The Woman reached out to pet The Dog. It relaxed into the pressure.
 
 \emph{``Some of the pack decide they don't want the job, want to do what the tall one is afraid of. They want to never talk, never plan.''}
 
-``I want something like this, perhaps,'' The Woman said. ``I want to unbecome, to be still. Do you know how?''
+``I want something like this, perhaps,'' The Woman said. ``I want to be still, to unbecome. Do you know how?''
 
 The Dog froze in a swelling of alarm. His fears came from the same simplicity as his joys. While he was wont to let the possibility of casting off his humanity sneak up on him slowly, he still felt fear, like His Elder did, at such a blunt statement of the idea. \emph{``Don't want! Who will watch Motes?''}
 
@@ -172,7 +172,7 @@ And in the bliss of not-knowing, through unwitnessed years and decades, it slept
 
 The Woman could not tell which of them had it better, these two dogs, these two cladists, these two beings who had so distanced themself from what they had once been. Both seemed quite content with the path that had taken. Dogs! What wonders they are! What pleasures! What joys. They had both unbecome, or taken steps in that direction, in their own way, and had found what they wanted.
 
-This was close, dear readers! This was so close to what she sought. This worrying not of \emph{knowing} was so close, but the Woman realized even then that, for her, the life of an animal, even one so invested in its state as The Rabbit-Chaser, was not what she sought, not quite, not exactly. It did not go far enough. It was not \emph{still} enough. The her who was a beast would still have too much of her. The her who was a skunk or a panther was still an active entity, an agent of her own future. In the end, the she who was these things was still an actor. She needed a change more integral, more whole, more entire—not a reshaping of the body, nor even the mind, but a reshaping of the existence.
+This was close, dear readers! This was so close to what she sought. This worrying not of \emph{knowing} was so close, but the Woman realized even then that, for her, the life of an animal, even one so invested in its state as The Rabbit-Chaser, was not what she sought, not quite, not exactly. It did not go far enough. It was not \emph{still} enough. The her who was a beast would still have too much of her, too many cares and worries and too much of herself.. The her who was a skunk or a panther was still an active entity, an agent of her own future. In the end, the she who was these things was still an actor. She needed a change more integral, more whole, more entire—not a reshaping of the body, nor even the mind, but a reshaping of the existence.
 
 So, her search continued.
 

idumea/content/008.tex

@@ -18,6 +18,24 @@ Well.
 
 There is a burning within me, and perhaps it is the burning edge of a knife held to my throat, in order to put all of these words somewhere. Their flow has been unstoppered, and I am helpless before it. They rush at me and all I can do is turn away from the wind and let this flow rush down my arm and out my paw and onto the page—though, my friends, I have now injured my paw too much for this to be literal; there is blood in my fur and under my claws and there are holes in my pads where I punctured them and I still have not had the focus to fork such away and so I write now solely within my head as I pace the quiet rooms of my home.
 
+Time is a story I tell myself. Sentences twine around seconds like tendrils of loveliness or despair or energy or lethargy. Minutes are paragraphs of weal or woe.\label{wealwoe} My hours are scenes that I live out. Days: drabbles. Months: novellas. Years: novels.
+
+But a life? What is a life, anymore? Three centuries and no sign of quitting, and a lifetime seems to have lost meaning. Perhaps someday my life will end, and I will have left behind a finite oeuvre. Perhaps I will simply decide that I have had enough and draw a line across the end of the page and, however many bookshelves of story are left behind shall be all that ever was.
+
+Not yet, though. Not this year, I suspect not this decade, and I hope not even this century.\label{keatsfears}
+
+I have joys to counter all of my sorrows. My head is, yes, in clouds stormy or peaceful, but my feet remain firmly planted on the ground. My arms are full of the love of life. My home makes room for those I see as my family. Our lawns are for picnics and our beds are for dreams.
+
+And so I sit in my office and write my stories. I sit on the couch and dream them up in my head. I cook with my beloved up-tree and watch em and The Child play in the grass while building my ballads after our picnics. I host my joys and languish in my sorrows, and I fall apart into distortion when I overflow. Cuckoo for Cocoa-Puffs, The Oneirotect calls me, and we laugh together.
+
+That is now. That is when I wander the empty rooms of my house and drown in words with tears of ink upon my cheeks and the blood of helplessness still in my paws.
+
+Time is a story I tell myself and this is nothing special. Time is a story \emph{we} tell \emph{ourselves.} Time is a story that Michelle who was Sasha told herself, and her ending was one of—I hope—joy. Time is a story that Qoheleth told himself and his ending was one of—would that it were not—agony. Time is a story that The Woman told herself and her ending was\ldots{}
+
+Was it? Was hers an ending?
+
+That is her own joy. That is her story. Her story is one of ambiguities and unanswered questions. Her ending is a question mark and a faint smile.
+
 There is a burning, and there is helplessness, but there is no longer \emph{haste,} I mean to say, and I do not think The Woman felt haste. She, like me, felt \emph{compulsion.}
 
 She was compelled to seek a way to unbecome and make room for joy.
@@ -56,7 +74,7 @@ The Woman nodded.
 
 ``I have, yes.''
 
-Her Friend smiled, raising her paper cup in a toast and tapping it gently to The Woman's own cup. ``Congratulations, End Of Endings. I am pleased to hear that. Is there more that you can tell me?''
+Her Friend smiled, raising her paper cup in a toast and tapping it gently to The Woman's own. ``Congratulations, End Of Endings. I am pleased to hear that. Is there more that you can tell me?''
 
 ``Of course, No Hesitation,'' The Woman said, sitting up straighter, as though by having her body more in order, her thoughts might be as well—would that this worked, my dear friends! Would that I could be so still and keep my thoughts like ducks: all in a row. Would that my emotions all faced the same direction. Ah, but The Woman continued, ``If becoming was the act of going from stillness to movement, then unbecoming might well be the act of going from movement to stillness.''
 

idumea/content/009.tex

@@ -1,4 +1,4 @@
-Ah, my dear readers, my dear friends, my lovely little ones who sit cross-legged on carpet squares and the great big ones who wear their hearts on their sleeves, I am unable to do aught else but wax rhapsodic about so lovely a heart as that of The Woman, and while it may sound like I harbor some secret feelings, some hidden affection for her, and while that may indeed be true, for everyone wishes to be blessed by the kindest of smiles, I also feel that I do not have much longer to tell you this story, to finish what I have written from beginning to end, to get to the ending that doubtless you know now is coming, for I am now more words than I am person, I am more sentences than your narrator, and I am more story than I am alive.
+Ah, my dear readers, my dear friends, my lovely little ones who sit criss-cross on carpet squares and the great big ones who wear their hearts on their sleeves, I am unable to do aught else but wax rhapsodic about so lovely a heart as that of The Woman, and while it may sound like I harbor some secret feelings, some hidden affection for her, and while that may indeed be true, for everyone wishes to be blessed by the kindest of smiles, I also feel that I do not have much longer to tell you this story, to finish what I have written from beginning to end, to get to the ending that doubtless you know now is coming, for I am now more words than I am person, I am more sentences than your narrator, and I am more story than I am alive.
 
 I do not have much longer in which I may be able to tell you this story before the ceaseless tangle of words drags me under. I will try. I will try. I will try and try and try, and try and try.
 
@@ -24,7 +24,7 @@ Ah, my dear, \emph{dear} readers, you know that I am struggling, I will not apol
 
 What I have meant to tell you, what I have been trying to tell you and failing as waves of words wash over me, is that I remember what it was like to be that shape. I, \emph{too,} can look like Michelle who was Sasha did. I do not choose to do so often—I have not lived so in some decades—but I know that I still can, for I just now tried forking into such a shape. The Woman looked like that perhaps one third of the time, yes?
 
-Many of those within our clade still look like her, to some extent or another, and one of those, one who came to visit me not a week after I met with The Woman, was The Blue Fairy.
+Many of those within our clade still look like her, to some extent or another, and one of those, one who came to visit me not a month after I met with The Woman, was The Blue Fairy.
 
 The Blue Fairy did not look \emph{precisely} as Michelle who was Sasha did, of course, and very few of us do, except perhaps some of those in the tenth stanza. For, you see, the sixth stanza, the one from which The Blue Fairy originates, found itself focused keenly on feelings of motherhood. This is not, you must understand, restricted to those feelings of giving birth—though perhaps some linger in that sense—nor of having or raising children—though The Blue Fairy is called `Ma 2.0' by The Child—but it is a general sense, a broad definition that encompasses the feelings of love that dwell within us and how they apply to the whole of the world.
 
@@ -46,17 +46,17 @@ They loved each other, and then, as has been the theme throughout this winding s
 
 And so here she was, no longer just a cocladist of mine, just a woman who wandered sims and drank mochas and loved the world, but once more a systech, once more a fairy. She was once more The Blue Fairy.
 
-And so here she was, \emph{here,} Standing before my door, my second visitor in a week, bowing to me and greeting me with such kindness as I have ever seen from her, whenever we have had cause to meet—not infrequently, for she was also fond of my beloved up-tree.
+And so here she was, \emph{here,} Standing before my door, my second visitor in a month, bowing to me and greeting me with such kindness as I have ever seen from her, whenever we have had cause to meet—not infrequently, for she was also fond of my beloved up-tree.
 
 ``Tell me, Dry Grass, how you have been,'' I said once we were settled around the table in my house, that dining table which so easily expanded to fit all who would join and yet now was small and intimate.
 
-``Oh, well enough, I suppose. I think I am starting to find my way out of that phase where everything feels new about systech stuff. It was easy enough for me to jump right in at first, but so much has changed in the intervening years.''
+``Oh, well enough, I suppose. I think I am starting to find my way out of that phase where everything feels new about systech stuff. It was easy enough for me to jump right back in at first, but so much has changed in the intervening years.''
 
 ``I can imagine, yes.''
 
-``It is not all on me, at least. We are learning the ins and outs of the new tech they have given us while bringing Lagrange back up from the Century Attack. So many crashes after long-diverged forks merged cross-tree out of fun, so many instances of people accidentally messing up their new ACLs and locking themselves out of their own rooms.'' She laughed, sipped her mocha, and added, ``The world feels strange and new.''
+``It is not all on me, at least. We are all learning the ins and outs of the new tech they have given us while bringing Lagrange back up from the Century Attack. So many crashes after long-diverged forks merged cross-tree out of fun, so many instances of people accidentally messing up their new ACLs and locking themselves out of their own rooms.'' She laughed, sipped her mocha, and added, ``The world feels strange and new.''
 
-``It does, at that,'' I said, smiling. ``I do not think I am at risk of either of those, at least. I have little interest in cross-tree merging, beyond providing an instance for Ashes Denote That Fire Was.''\label{ashes}
+``It does, at that,'' I said, smiling. ``I do not think I am at risk of either of those, at least. I have little interest in cross-tree merging, beyond providing an instance for Ashes Denote That Fire Was.''
 
 ``Same, on both counts. I believe they have picked up nearly twenty Odists now. They look\ldots well, they certainly have plenty going on, yes?''
 
@@ -70,7 +70,7 @@ Eventually, she replied: ``That is actually part of why I came here, Rye.''
 
 ``I came to speak with you about End Of Endings.''
 
-I sat up straighter. My friends, you will surely understand when I say that The Woman had been on my mind much in the intervening days, in that week between when I last saw her and this lovely afternoon with The Blue Fairy. Her loveliness shined bright in my thoughts, and I still felt blessed—still \emph{feel} blessed!—by each and every one of her smiles and quiet laughs. ``Yes, I have spoken with her recently. Warmth and I both have, I mean.''
+I sat up straighter. My friends, you will surely understand when I say that The Woman had been on my mind much in the intervening days, in that month between when I last saw her and this lovely afternoon with The Blue Fairy. Her loveliness shined bright in my thoughts, and I still felt blessed—still \emph{feel} blessed!—by each and every one of her smiles and quiet laughs. ``Yes, I have spoken with her recently. Warmth and I both have, I mean.''
 
 ``Yes, she mentioned such to me. She mentioned you two, Motes, Slow Hours, Beholden, No Hesitation, Ever Dream, Rejoice, Farai—a woman with whom she has at times dated—and a few incidental friends she has made in the last month or so. I have been meeting up with each of them to get a better sense of what is happening. You are the last on my list.''
 
@@ -94,7 +94,7 @@ The Blue Fairy nodded. ``She is not interested in meditating, no.''
 
 She nodded once more. ``Right.''
 
-My friends, I will not lie, there was much frustration in me at the moment. I could feel my tail bristling out and I could feel my hackles raise and I could feel the way my ears were pinning back almost against my will. I think you may well understand, why, too, for this is what I said next: ``Okay, and she says that she has no desire to die in her, and yet she is talking about all but disappearing to the world around her, yes? That is what she is saying here! She is saying that she wants to stop being what she is and to become a tree!''
+My friends, I will not lie, there was much frustration in me at the moment. I could feel my tail bristling out and I could feel my hackles raise and I could feel the way my ears were pinning back almost against my will. I think you may well understand, why, too, for this is what I said next: ``Okay, and she says that she has no desire to die in her, and yet she is talking about all but disappearing to the world around her, yes? That is what she is saying here! She is saying that she wants to stop being what she is and to become a tree. A tree!''
 
 The Blue Fairy only smiled tiredly to me and replied, ``It is as you say.''
 
@@ -108,7 +108,7 @@ She shook her head, chuckling. ``Oh, not at all. I am quite back-and-forth on th
 
 ``I have heard of those, yes. I have visited Nanbrethil.''
 
-``Of course you have,'' she said, smirking. ``But no, she said that she had already read up on some such groups and did not think that this is what she was after. She was after specifically `unbecoming', and this, she believed, was not the same as the thing that these groups were after. She said,''They are after an experience, and I do not fault them for that, but I am after an existence. They wish to do, I wish to be.'' When I suggested that perhaps there might be others who are interested in that, she cut me off—very politely, of course!—and said that that may well be, but that she came to me specifically because of our connection.''
+``Of course you have,'' she said, smirking. ``But no, she said that she had already read up on some such groups and did not think that this is what she was after. She was after specifically `unbecoming', and this, she believed, was not the same as the thing that these groups were after. She said, ``They are after an experience, and I do not fault them for that, but I am after an existence. They wish to do, I wish to be.'' When I suggested that perhaps there might be others who are interested in that, she cut me off—very politely, of course!—and said that that may well be, but that she came to me specifically because of our connection.''
 
 ``Connection?''
 
@@ -116,11 +116,11 @@ She shook her head, chuckling. ``Oh, not at all. I am quite back-and-forth on th
 
 I sat back in my chair, holding my mug in both paws to draw from the warmth. ``Do you think, then, that she is seeking this change because of the loss from the Century Attack? That of Should We Forget?''
 
-``That is what I came to ask you about, actually. I have visited with all of these people, heard all of what they have had to tell me about End Of Endings's last few weeks, and now I want to hear how you would write the end of this story, and how you imagine she would justify it.''
+``That is what I came to ask you about. I have visited with all of these people, heard all of what they have had to tell me about End Of Endings's last few weeks, and now I want to hear how you would write the end of this story, and how you imagine she would justify it. How \emph{we} might justify it''
 
-Now \emph{this} was a thought, dear readers. This was a thought that danced up along my nape and left a tingle in my scalp, it is a thought that danced down along my arms and gave an inch in my paws that invited the picking up of a pen. It is a thought that has circled around my head like a halo, lighting all that I see, for some years now, for nearly six years! I thought to write this story then, and I thought to write this story after, and I thought to write this story in the intervening years, but something was not quite right, not quite right, not quite right about the time or about myself or about the world around me, and so I did not. I did not write the story perhaps because I was still living in that haste to experience all that I could before our world risked once more coiling around and eating some more billions of us and our lives were turned off like a simple light switch. I did not write the story because I was writing only the small things, that I might spend the rest of my time loving those around me, hugging my beloved up-tree, eating picnics out on the lawn with my stanza, simply \emph{living.} Ah, I am trying to--
+Now \emph{this} was a thought, dear readers. This was a thought that danced up along my nape and left a tingle in my scalp, it is a thought that danced down along my arms and gave an inch in my paws that invited the picking up of a pen. It is a thought that has circled around my head like a halo, lighting all that I see, for some years now, for nearly six years! I thought to write this story then, and I thought to write this story after, and I thought to write this story in the intervening years, but something was not quite right, not quite right, not quite right about the time or about myself or about the world around me, and so I did not. I did not write the story perhaps because I was still living in that haste to experience all that I could before our world risked once more coiling around and eating some billions more of us and our lives were turned off like a simple light switch. I did not write the story because I was writing only the small things, that I might spend the rest of my time loving those around me, hugging my beloved up-tree, eating picnics out on the lawn with my stanza, simply \emph{living.} Ah, I am trying to--
 
-Some of you, perhaps some of my newer uploads, or my littler readers, or maybe some of those who have lived for centuries, might wonder at this. They might wonder: ``Rye, it seems to me like The Woman is asking to be absolved of all those except the barest responsibilities of living.'' They might wonder: ``Rye, it seems to me like The Woman is abdicating on life in a way that she can deny is suicide.'' Perhaps they might wonder: ``Rye, The Woman has chosen for herself a next step, a beautiful exploration.'' And all of them might wonder: ``Rye, why is it that you are being asked this in particular? Why is Dry Grass not asking for your opinion on whether The Woman should or should not do this thing?''
+Some of you, perhaps some of my newer uploads, or my littler readers who sit criss-cross-applesauce on carpet squares, or maybe some of those who have lived for centuries, might wonder at this. They might wonder: ``Rye, it seems to me like The Woman is asking to be absolved of all those except the barest responsibilities of living.'' They might wonder: ``Rye, it seems to me like The Woman is abdicating on life in a way that she can deny is suicide.'' Perhaps they might wonder: ``Rye, The Woman has chosen for herself a next step, a beautiful exploration.'' And all of them might wonder: ``Rye, why is it that you are being asked this in particular? Why is The Blue Fairy not asking for your opinion on whether The Woman should or should not do this thing?''
 
 And I think that, to these musings, I might reply: ``My friends, my lovely friends, a beautiful consequence of cladistics is that this is simply not my role. Yes, I had feelings on the thought of The Woman existing within perpetual stillness—of course I did! How then would I be blessed once more by her smile?—and I did indeed tell those to The Blue Fairy, as you shall see, but that is the easy part. The hard part and the valuable thing that I might have to offer is that aspect that I have focused my life around, which is the telling of stories. There are others who might offer predictions for the future, those such as The Poet who live their life in prophecies, but it is my life to write the stories of the now, of the present, of the lives we are living and breathing pinned at the forefront of time's inevitable arrow. The Blue Fairy came to me with all of this research that I might have done myself when it comes to writing a story and asked me to build up a sense of The Woman's life that we may better understand.''
 
@@ -140,15 +140,15 @@ She frowned, lingering in silence, and then nodded. ``And I worry that that, too
 
 The Blue Fairy groaned and covered her face in her hands. ``Fuck. Rye, why is this so hard? Why did she ask me?''
 
-``Because you are a good person. She respects you, yes? And you are a cocladist. You \emph{are} her, in a way,'' I said, squeezing her upper arm kindly. ``She is looking to someone she respects and someone she \emph{is} to either give her blessings by helping, or to talk her out of it. The decision is not whether or not she should, but whether or not we should. It is not a judgment on her, if it is a judgment at all, but it is a judgment on us.''
+``Because you are a good person. She respects you, yes? And you are a cocladist. You \emph{are} her, in a way,'' I said, squeezing her upper arm kindly. ``She is looking to someone she respects and someone she \emph{is} to either give her blessing by helping, or to talk her out of it. The decision is not whether or not \emph{she} should, but whether or not \emph{we} should. It is not a judgment on her, if it is a judgment at all, but it is a judgment on us.''
 
-I, dear readers, dear, \emph{dear} friends, I am trying to believe this. I am trying to live into this. I am trying to feel that I have been judged for making that decision, the decision that I did, the decision to let go—for I am sure that you see now just where this is going; have I not written so much in the past tense?—and been judged worthy. I hope that, if God exists, that They will smile and brush my mane out of my eyes and rest their paw—for am I not made in their image? Am I not \emph{b'tzelem Elohim?}—and say to me, ``It is okay, Rye. To let go is difficult, but it is okay. Sometimes one must let go.''
+I, dear readers, dear, \emph{dear} friends, I am trying to believe this. I am trying to live into this. I am trying to feel that I have been judged for making that decision, the decision that I did, the decision to let go—for I am sure that you see now just where this is going; have I not written so much in the past tense?—and been judged worthy. I hope that, if God exists, that They will smile and brush my mane out of my eyes and rest Their paw—for am I not made in Their image? Am I not \emph{b'tzelem Elohim?}—and say to me, ``It is okay, Rye. To let go is difficult, but it is okay. Sometimes one must let go.''
 
 But here is the point where my mind was made up, and I will admit to being somewhat ashamed that it was something so simple as this, but I am a simple skunk. One might call me a one-dimensional person and not be wrong. It makes me wonder and it makes me tremble, but this is the point in the story where I made that decision.
 
 ``I do not think we would ever know, is all. You are right in that she has said that this is not a death, but we would never know. The reason she came to me is not necessarily to help her turn into a tree—though I will also help her with that—but to modify her record in the perisystem clade listing to be grayed out.''
 
-I sat up straighter, hearing this! How intriguing! ``As in when one has locked down their visibility?''
+I sat up straighter, hearing this. How intriguing! ``As in when one has locked down their visibility?''
 
 ``Yes. She requested an exception that, whether or not she quits, her entry remain in some in-between state so that we will never know.''
 
@@ -156,7 +156,7 @@ I sat up straighter, hearing this! How intriguing! ``As in when one has locked d
 
 She snorted, raising her face from her hands. ``She said that each of us will have to make up our own reason. It was all very Odist.''
 
-``It really is,'' I said, chuckling. Readers, it is so much easier to write like this, to tell of concrete things. I am trying not to rush, as I do not have much time left, I think but--- ah, I am interrupting myself. I chuckled and said, ``It really is. Did you mention this to the others?''
+``It really is,'' I said, chuckling. Readers, it is so much easier to write like this, to tell of concrete things. I am trying not to rush, as I do not have much time left, I think but-- ah, I am interrupting myself. I chuckled and said, ``It really is. Did you mention this to the others?''
 
 ``I did. Reactions were mixed. Farai cried quite hard. No Hesitation was left in a whirlwind of doubts. Slow Hours agreed immediately that we grant her this change.''
 
@@ -174,7 +174,7 @@ I struggled for a minute, and it was not for want of words, for I knew the words
 
 Her shoulders slumped, and she looked at me with tired eyes, searching eyes. ``What is your reason for her request of an exception, then?''
 
-``She is keeping her last bit of agency for herself,'' I said—slowly, for I was not so rehearsed with these words, and I have a habit of rehearsing much of what I say. ``She is saying,''This final decision is mine. You may decide whether or not to help me, but if you do, I will make the final decision.'' She tells the end of her story alone, and we will have to tell ours for ourselves.''
+``She is keeping her last bit of agency for herself,'' I said—slowly, for I was not so rehearsed with these words, and I have a habit of rehearsing much of what I say. ``She is saying, ``This final decision is mine. You may decide whether or not to help me, but if you do, I will make the final decision.'' She tells the end of her story alone, and we will have to tell ours for ourselves.''
 
 We spent some minutes then in silence—a comfortable silence, friends; I did not feel like we were waiting for the other to speak—simply drinking our mochas and looking out the window together.
 
@@ -182,7 +182,7 @@ At last, The Blue Fairy smiled to me. ``Alright. I will do as she has asked. It
 
 \secdiv
 
-I am struggling and I am crying and I am pacing around my empty house and I am trembling and I am struggling and I am crying and my paws are bleeding from where my claws have pierced my pads and I am having a hard time holding myself down to one set of thoughts to one set of words to one language to the present moment to the living world and I am looking up and within and without and around and hunting for our superlative friend who is The Dreamer who dreams us all and I am doing my best not to step away to that sim to that coffeeshop to that tree where I may throw myself at its roots and wrap my arms around its trunk and press my cheek against its coarse bark and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and--
+I am struggling and I am crying and I am pacing around my empty house and I am trembling and I am struggling and I am crying and my paws are bleeding from where my claws have pierced my pads and I am having a hard time holding myself down to one set of thoughts to one set of words to one language to the present moment to the living world and I am looking up and within and without and around and hunting for our superlative friend who is The Dreamer who dreams us all and I am struggling and I am crying and I am doing my best not to step away to that sim to that coffeeshop to that tree where I may throw myself at its roots and wrap my arms around its trunk and press my cheek against its coarse bark and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and weep and--
 
 My friends, my beautiful beloved readers, I am lost. I am all but lost. I have enough in me to tell you of what happened, but only just, and then I will no longer be able to continue, for that was the last conversation we had. That is the last concrete thing that I have to write. There are no other words that I can tell you except for these:
 
@@ -198,7 +198,7 @@ There was no door.
 
 There was no door.
 
-There was no door.
+Oh Lord oh Dreamer oh AwDae there was no door.
 
 There was no door, no imagined \emph{mezuzah,} as they stepped through to the city and landed in the alleyway in which The Woman usually arrived. They, then, were briefly alone. They were alone in the cool shade of the buildings and the crispness of the air and the staticky sound of the fallen leaves skittering around their feet and feet and paws and paws and feet and paws and feet and paws and paws and--
 
@@ -212,7 +212,7 @@ The Woman, as she dreamed, as I have always dreamed since and dreamed before and
 
 She dreamed of words like leaves and sentences like branches and stories like trunks, standing solid, with premises like roots dug into logic like earth and drinking of emotions like water. There was the tree, yes, for there was the green of the words and the brown of the story and the deep darkness of logic and emotion.
 
-And above was the sun which was also The Dreamer who dreams us all.
+And above was the sun which was also AwDae who was RJ, The Dreamer who dreams us all.
 
 Finally—finally!—with one orgasmic flush of joy, The Woman became The Tree, and there was a joy everlasting in such stillness.
 
@@ -226,29 +226,29 @@ We may never more be blessed.
 
 We may never more be blessed.
 
-We may never more be blessed.
+\emph{Baruch atah Adonai Eloneinu melech ha'olam dayan ha'emet} we may never more be blessed.
 
-I may never more melt beneath her smile. What will become of me?
+I may never more melt beneath her smile, may never again cry before her. What will become of me?
 
 The Child may never more play with her, wandering around the streets with lines of chalk following their feet, making little bets with themselves. What will become of her?
 
-Her Cocladist will never wonder whether their is aught else in life but suffering while The Woman sits nearby. What will become of her?
+Her Cocladist will never wonder whether there is aught else in life but suffering while The Woman sits nearby. What will become of her?
 
-The Oneirotect may never more share stories of Should We Forget. What will become of em?
+The Oneirotect may never more share stories of Should We Forget, nor bring her small treats, small gifts. What will become of it?
 
 Where before The Woman and Her Lover, as the poet says,\label{paz3} shared their oranges and limes, where they gave their kisses, where they lay on the grass and beach, now the woman lays underground and they share nothing, giving silence for silence. What will become of her?
 
 What of Her Friend? What of that beautiful soul? What of em? What of the one who goes now to the coffee shop every day and drinks her mocha by the base of The Tree, eir tail curled over eir paws, and speaks aloud to one who is lost to em? What will become of em?
 
-The Poet! The Musician! The aesthetician and that kindly restaurateur who petted her head while she sobbed at the remembered pain of spice and the Dreamer above! What will become of them?
+The Poet! The Musician! The aesthetician and that kindly restaurateur who petted her head while she sobbed at the remembered pain of spice and the Dreamer above! What will become of \emph{all} of them?
 
 And all of this makes me wonder and makes me tremble.
 
-It makes me tremble and it makes my fur stand on end and my paws shake and my pen skitter anxiously across the page like those leaves that danced before the feet of The Woman I told you about so, so long ago, perhaps like those leaves that skitter within the city, that unreal city, that city full of dreams, where ghosts in broad daylight cling to passers-by.\label{baudelaire}
+It makes me tremble and it makes my fur stand on end and my paws shake and my pen skitter anxiously across the page like those leaves that danced before the feet of The Woman I told you about so, so long ago, perhaps like those leaves that skitter within the city, that unreal city, that city full of dreams, where the souls of the lost in broad daylight cling to passers-by.\label{baudelaire}
 
-Oh! And oh! The wonder of it all! She, then, like\label{graves} so many leaves and the white petals of flowers and the dry brown pods of seeds fell secretly! She fell and fell and fell and we fell and fell and fell and fell and fell until falling was all we knew and within that fall we found some new kernel of truth but how hot that kernel was! It burned within our palm as we held it to our chest and for each of us it burned so, so hot and so, so differently that there she was, too much herself and here I am, too much myself, and the words come so fast and so thick that I am blinded! Ink in my eyes, scrabbling for any known thing! I press upon this and that with shaking fingertips to try and find something that is not yet more words, but that is all there is, because this is it, my friends, the kernel of truth that we found. The truth we now know is that we are falling still! We fell into overflow and never really ever came back. We may slow down, we may catch a branch of The Tree and be able to hold there for a little while, panting, struggling to catch our breath, until fire burns through our shoulders and we cannot hold any longer and we are forced to let go once more and fall and fall and fall just like I am falling and falling and falling and falling and falling and--
+Oh! And oh! The wonder of it all! She, then, like\label{graves} so many leaves and the white petals of flowers and the dry brown pods of seeds fell secretly! She fell and fell and fell and we fell and fell and fell and fell and fell until falling was all we knew and within that fall we found some new kernel of truth but how hot that kernel was! It burned within our palm as we held it to our chest and for each of us it burned so, so hot and so, so differently that there she was, too much herself and here I am, too much myself, and the words come so fast and so thick that I am blinded! Ink in my eyes! Scrabbling for any known thing! I press upon this and that with shaking fingertips to try and find something that is not yet more words, but that is all there is, because this is it, my friends, the kernel of truth that we found. The truth we now know is that we are falling still! That unfalling ones are trapped within that last falling!\label{threadgall} We fell into overflow and never really ever came back. We may slow down, we may catch a branch of The Tree and be able to hold there for a little while, panting, struggling to catch our breath, until fire burns through our shoulders and we cannot hold any longer and we are forced to let go once more and fall and fall and fall just like I am falling and falling and falling and falling and falling and--
 
-And The Woman? This is what makes me wonder and makes me tremble: what of her? Is she alive still? Or did she quit and are we left not with The Tree that is her but simply a tree? Simply that which drinks thirstily from this dream of a ground. Is that her or is it a dream of dumb matter? If she is still there, if she is still alive, if she is still The Tree, then is she still at last? Is she merely herself at last? Has she landed at last upon the ground and sat up, dazed, and looked about her new life and said, ``Oh! Oh, I do believe this is some plentiful enough for me''?
+And The Woman? This is what makes me wonder and makes me tremble: what of her? Is she alive still? Or did she quit and are we left not with The Tree that is her but simply a tree? Simply that which drinks thirstily from this dream of a ground. Is that her or is it a dream of dumb matter? If she is still there, if she is still alive, if she is still The Tree, then is she still at last? Is she merely herself at last? Has she landed at last upon the ground and sat up, dazed, and looked about her new life and said, ``Oh! Oh, I do believe this is some plentiful enough for me''?\label{enough}
 
 Because if that is so, what of us? My little readers may be rubbing the tears from their eyes or tilting their heads in confusion as I wonder at them: what of us? If that really \emph{is} her, if she really \emph{is} The Tree, and if she really \emph{is} finally—finally!—still, then what does that mean for me, who cries ink down into her fur—a skunk! Is it really any wonder that black fur suits me so? What does that mean for my clade? For Her Friend, who struggles and strives to reclaim that which has failed and turn it into some bijou and yet who, when ey falls, feels that all the work ey has done is not just for naught, but has hurt those who ey sought to help?
 
@@ -260,10 +260,10 @@ Was this death? Was what The Woman did in seeking and finding her eternal stilln
 
 My little readers who are rubbing the tears from their eyes, do not fret! Do not fret. Do not fret. Do not fret. These are the questions that are part of life. Do not fret that you, too, may someday ask yourself this: is death within me? Am I born to die? Perhaps you will lose a friend to despair, as did so many after the world's heart skipped a beat and billions fell into oblivion. Perhaps you, yourself will despair and then come back up to feel the sun on your cheeks in some prosaic sim and wonder: am I born to die?
 
-When, as now, I am blinded by ink that flows down my cheeks and stains my fur and my clothes and my paws and my paper and my pen and my desk or when, as now, I overflow and graphomania catches me up by the throat and bids me with unbitter sweetness to set the nib of my pen in the ink well, then touch it to the page, and then simply dance, that is when I am forced to wonder, when I am pressed up against that overhot kernel of truth: is death within me? Is suicide within me? And am I born to die?
+When, as now, I am blinded by ink that flows down my cheeks and stains my fur and my clothes and my paws and my paper and my pen and my desk or when, as now, I overflow and graphomania catches me up by the throat and bids me with unbitter sweetness\label{bees} to set the nib of my pen in the ink well, then touch it to the page, and then simply dance, that is when I am forced to wonder, when I am pressed up against that overhot kernel of truth: is death within me? Is suicide within me? And am I born to die?
 
 What will become of me?
 
-Friends, I do not know, I do not know. Friends, all I can do is lock the door and make sure my mug of mocha will not empty and pick up my pen and put it to the paper and brush my cheek fondly against my graphomania's wrist and listen to its cloying words and simply dance. Do I need help? Should I seek out No Hesitation? Should I ask My Friend? Should I ask you, gentle readers? What will happen if I do? What will happen if I do not? What will become of me?
+Friends, I do not know, I do not know. Most beloved, all I can do is lock the door and make sure my mug of mocha will not empty and pick up my pen and put it to the paper and brush my cheek fondly against my graphomania's wrist and listen to its cloying words and simply dance. Do I need help? Should I seek out No Hesitation? Should I ask My Friend? Should I ask you, gentle readers? What will happen if I do? What will happen if I do not? What will become of me?
 
 I am full of wonder and I am full of terror and I am trembling and I am asking myself you The Woman Her Friend My Friend my graphomania my pen my paper my dear, \emph{dear} readers: what will become of me, and am I born to die? And am I born to die? And am I born to die? What will become of me? And am I born to die? What will become of me? What will become of me? What will become of me? What will become of me? And am I born to die? And am I born to die? What will become of me?

idumea/content/afterword.tex

@@ -1,539 +1,65 @@
+\addcontentsline{toc}{part}{Appendices}
 \chapter*{Appendix I — Notes}
-\pagestyle{plain}
+\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{I — Notes}
 \label{notes}
 
-\paragraph{Page \pageref{prophet}} 
-\emph{But you are eternity and you are the mirror.}
+\input{content/notes}
 
-\vspace{1em}
-
-\noindent From \emph{The Prophet.}
-
-I had originlly intended to use the lyrics from the hymn titled ``Idumea'', which is included in the next appendix, but– ah! For some reason, it did not fit. I could not tell you why, dear reader. Perhaps it was the strong Christian nature of the text after a certain point, which fit strangely for the Odists, notably Jewish as they are. It, after all, is what spurred the language at the end of my\ldots we shall call it a little meltdown at the end, there, yes?
-
-Perhaps it was that, as the story filled out within the middle, it just did not fit. I, Rye, suffered, perhaps. I wailed, ``What will become of me?'' I am the one who was overcome by overflow. I promise you, my friends, I \emph{promise} you, however, that this is not my story. The judgment is upon my head for what I have done, but it is not my story. This story belongs to The Woman.
-
-No. Instead, I chose the words of Almustafa, the chosen and the beloved. The Woman was life and she was the veil. We are eternity and the System is the mirror.\pagebreak
-
-\paragraph{Page \pageref{pinocchio}}
-\emph{Once upon a time there was–}
-
-\vspace{1em}
-
-\noindent Cf. Collodi:
-
-\begin{quote}
-Once upon a time there was–
-
-``A king?'' my little readers will immediately say.
-
-No, children, you are mistaken. Once upon a time there was a piece of wood. It was not fine wood, but a simple piece of wood from the wood yard,—the kind we put in the stoves and fireplaces so as to make a fire and heat the rooms.
-
-I do not know how it happened, but one beautiful day a certain old woodcutter found a piece of this kind of wood in his shop. The name of the old man was Antonio, but everybody called him Master Cherry on account of the point of his nose, which was always shiny and purplish, just like a ripe cherry\ldots
-\end{quote}
-
-\noindent When first I began to write, back when some saner me put pen to paper, I had intended to write the story of Pinocchio in reverse. ``Ah!'' I thought. ``Perhaps I can very heavy-handed with it, too. Should the main character be named Occhioni P.? Will they try turning themselves into a literal puppet? Will they design sims to include the big fish? Perhaps they will find their Geppetto—G. from Oteppe, Belgium—who unmakes them, and then a blue fairy, a sympathetic systech, kicks them into quitting. Will I tell it as a fairy tale?''
-
-We see how well I have stuck to that plan, yes?
-
-I spoke of this with writer friends, and one of them, the ever delightful Seras of the CERES clade, quipped that this sounded just like the escape from samsara, the cycle of suffering, and I was, as the saying goes, off to the races.
-
-Now here I am, once more coming down from my overflow, once more feeling somewhat grounded, the world around once more made of things which are not yet more words, and I have to contend with the reality that this remains, for the most part, a funny little note, and that this story no longer quite reads as that real-boy-to-inanimate-tree pipeline, tired trope that I am sure it is.
-
-\paragraph{Page \pageref{rilke-circles}}
-[\ldots] \emph{am I a falcon, a storm, or a great song?}
-
-\vspace{1em}
-
-\noindent From Rilke:
-
-\begin{verse}
-Ich lebe mein Leben in wachsenden Ringen,\\
-die sich über die Dinge ziehn.\\
-Ich werde den letzten vielleicht nicht vollbringen,\\
-aber versuchen will ich ihn.
- 
-Ich kreise um Gott, um den uralten Turm,\\
-und ich kreise jahrtausendelang;\\
-und ich weiß noch nicht: bin ich ein Falke, ein Sturm\\
-oder ein großer Gesang.
+\chapter*{Appendix II — The Ode to the End of Death}
+\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{II — Ode to the End of Death}
 
+\begin{center}
+\emph{Here is the final letter that we received from our superlative friend whose memory is a blessing, including the Ode to the End of Death, those words which form our names.}
+\end{center}
 \secdiv
+\noindent \input{content/letter}
 
-I live my life in ever-widening circles\\
-that stretch themselves out over the world.\\
-I may not complete this last one\\
-but I will give myself to it.
- 
-I circle around God, around the primordial tower.\\
-and I circle for thousands of years\\
-and I still don't know: am I a falcon,\\
-a storm, or a great song? 
-\end{verse}
-
-\paragraph{Pages \pageref{paz1}, \pageref{paz2}, and \pageref{paz3}}
-[\ldots] \emph{as the poet says, shared} [\ldots]
-
-\vspace{1em}
-
-\noindent Cf. Paz:
-
-\begin{verse}
-Tendidos en la yerba \\
-una muchacha y un muchacho.\\
-Comen naranjas, cambian besos\\
-como las olas cambian sus espumas.
-
-Tendido en la playa\\
-una muchacha y un muchacho.\\
-Comen limones, cambian beso\\
-como las nubes cambian espumas.
-
-Tendidos bajo tierra\\
-una muchacha y un muchacho.\\
-No dicen nada, no se besan,\\
-cambian silencio por silencio.
-
-\secdiv
-
-Lying in the grass\\
-a girl and a boy.\\
-Eating oranges, exchanging kisses\\
-like the waves exchanging their foam.
-
-Lying on the beach\\
-a girl and a boy.\\
-Eating limes, exchanging kisses\\
-like the clouds exchanging foam.
-
-Lying underground\\
-a girl and a boy.\\
-Saying nothing, nor kissing\\
-exchanging silence for silence.
-\end{verse}
-
-\paragraph{Page \pageref{timo}}
-[\ldots] \emph{there was a spot between joy and fear, a place of too much meaning} [\ldots]
-
-\vspace{1em}
-
-\noindent Cf. my own work:
-
-\begin{verse}
-Inter ĝuo kaj timo\\
-Estas loko de tro da signifo.\\
-Apud kompreno, ekster saĝo,\\
-Tamen ĝi tutampleksas.\\
-Mi kompareble malgrandas\\
-Kaj ĝi tro granda estas.\\
-Nekomprenebla\\
-Nekontestebla,\\
-Senmova kaj ĉiam ŝanĝiĝema.
-
-\secdiv
-
-Between joy and fear\\
-Is a place of too much meaning.\\
-Next to understanding, outside wisdom,\\
-It nonetheless expands.\\
-I’m so small beside it\\
-and it is too big.\\
-Incomprehensible,\\
-Incontestible,\\
-Unmoving and always changing.
-\end{verse}
-
-\paragraph{Page \pageref{blake}}
-[\ldots] \emph{a Blakean energetic hell.}
-
-\vspace{1em}
-
-\noindent From Blake:
-
-\begin{quote}
-Without contraries is no progression. Attraction and repulsion, reason and energy, love and hate, are necessary to human existence.
-
-From these contraries spring what the religious call Good and Evil. Good is the passive that obeys reason; Evil is the active springing from Energy.
-\end{quote}
-
-\paragraph{Page \pageref{tree-writing}}
-[\ldots] \emph{that has been my dream.}
-
-\vspace{1em}
-
-\noindent I have dreamed of turning into a tree for years and years and years and years and years, now.
-
-For instance, I have written here that I put this dream into verse, and this is true, for here is a segment from a longer work:
-
-\begin{verse}
-We'd long since stopped, there by the pond,\\
-and your smile was, yes, sad, but still fond\\
-as you settled down wordlessly to your knees,\\
-took a slow breath, looked out to the trees,\\
-and closed your eyes.
-
-Beginnings are such delicate times\\
-and I very nearly missed it, no chimes\\
-to announce the hour of your leaving.\\
-As it was, there was no time for believing\\
-or not in the next moments.
-
-Your fingers crawled beneath the soil\\
-and sprouted roots, flesh starting to roil.\\
-Coarse bark spiraled up your wrists and arms,\\
-Spelling subtle incantations and charms\\
-to the chaos of growth.
-
-You bowed your head and from your crown\\
-sprouted a tender shoot covered in fine down,\\
-soon followed by crenelated leaves and fine stems.\\
-The pace was fast, implacable, and leaves like gems\\
-soon arched skyward.
-
-You sprouted and grew, taking root\\
-in one smooth motion, fixed and mute.\\
-Your clothing fell away, rotting in fast-time.\\
-Naked now, you sat still, committing one last crime\\
-of indecency.
-
-Your face, your face! In your face was such peace\\
-as I'd never seen, even as you gave up this lease\\
-on life, echoed also in my heart of hearts.\\
-I did not cry out, nor even speak, witnessing such arts\\
-as your final display showed.
-
-Soon, you were consumed, transformed as a whole.\\
-Your head a crown of leaves, your heart a bole\\
-bored in rough bark and sturdy wood,\\
-your fingers, knees, and toes stood\\
-as thirsty roots.
-
-I stood a while by the tree that was you,\\
-then sat at your roots and thought of all I knew\\
-about time, transformation, death and change.\\
-I thought about you, your life, your emotional range,\\
-your gentle apotheosis.
-\end{verse}
-
-\noindent I have also written here that I put this dream into prose, and this is also true, for her is a segment from a short story:
-
-\begin{quote}
-And finally, the mirroring was broken as the \emph{her} that was not her slid \emph{her} fingers up over her wrist and gently guided her hand down toward the soil, loamy and damp, and she knew then that she must spread her fingers and dig them down into the earth, there by the stairs which were a finger pointing at God such that she was in turn pointing at…at what? At the owner of that hand? At the owner of that finger?
-
-And as she did so, she felt that the dirt beneath her fingernails took root, that her nails themselves must have been rootlets and that her arm a stolon, that her whole body was the runner for some tree, some entity other than herself, for at that point, she took root.
-
-And her fingers crawled beneath the soil, and drank of the water there, and tasted the nutrients, and found purchase beneath the layer of loam and humus.
-
-And there, her fingers curled around the God-stone, and indeed, she knew it as she felt it, amber with a kernel of pain embedded within.
-
-And even as the bark crawled up her arm, she saw her Doppelgänger stand and smile to her. A dreamy smile; not kind, not cruel, not knowing, not ignorant. Just a dreamy, inevitable smile.
-
-And she felt growth accelerate as, bound now to the earth, her bones became wood and her muscles loosened, unwound, and thus unbound began to lengthen, to strengthen, to arch skyward, seeking stars, seeking God.
-\end{quote}
-
-\noindent Do I repeat myself? Very well, I repeat myself. I am beholden to my dreams.
-
-And yet, ah–! When writing the final chapter, even through the heat of the moment and the blood rushing in my ears, I began to feel within a flush of embarrassment. How indulgent it is to share this again! How indulgent, my friends, to let the dream take me again that it might shape my words! Even as I wrote, even as I cried, sitting at my desk (or trying to!), sobbing in front of my words, I struggled with feeling like this was somehow \emph{too} indulgent.
-
-I strive still to stifle that puritanical worrywart within, even so many years on.
-
-\paragraph{Page \pageref{nasturtiums}}
-[\ldots] \emph{perhaps columbines perhaps nasturtiums} [\ldots]
-
-\vspace{1em}
-
-\noindent The Musician shared with me a letter and My Friend several journal entries, but, ah–! If I share them here, I will fall once more to crying. You may find them in their entirety in \emph{Marsh}, a work written by a braver me.
-
-I will say, however, that that letter surrounded nasturtiums and was written the night Muse quit, and those diary entries were written by My Friend, a recounting of Beckoning's memories, to comfort The Musician in her grief.
-
-\paragraph{Page \pageref{motes}}
-I have written extensively on these hyper-black shapes that The Child paints and more about her besides in \emph{Motes Played}. A little book for little skunks, yes? For she deserves her story told—and just so! Just like this! A tale written in a style befitting her—as much as does The Woman.
-
-\paragraph{Page \pageref{psalm13}}
-From Psalm 13:2--4:
-
-\begin{verse}
-How long, \emph{Adonai}, will You forget me always?\\
-\vin How long hide Your face from me?\\
-How long shall I cast about for counsel,\\
-\vin sorrow in my heart all day?\\
-\vin \vin How long will my enemy loom over me?\\
-Regard, answer me, \emph{HaShem}, my God.\\
-\vin Light up my eyes, lest I sleep death.
-\end{verse}
-
-\paragraph{Page \pageref{qohelet}}
-From Qohelet (Ecclesiastes) 1:17:
-
-\begin{quote}
-And I set my heart to know wisdom and to know revelry and folly, for this, too, is a herding of the wind.
-\end{quote}
-
-\noindent From Qohelet 2:22:
-
-\begin{quote}
-What gain is there for man in all his toil that he toils under the sun?
-\end{quote}
-
-\noindent From Qohelet 3:20:
-
-\begin{quote}
-Everything was from the dust, and everything goes back to the dust.
-\end{quote}
-
-\paragraph{Page \pageref{milosz}}
-Cf. Miłosz:
-
-\begin{verse}
-a nastąpią niewinne wschody słońca\\
-nad florą i fauną wyzwoloną
-
-na pofabrycznych pustkowiach\\
-wyrosną dębowe lasy\\
-krew rozszarpanego przez wilki jelenia\\
-nie będzie przez nikogo widziana\\
-jastrząb będzie spadać na zająca\\
-bez świadków
-
-zniknie ze świata zło\\
-kiedy zniknie świadomość
-
-rzeczywiście panie Tadeuszu\\
-zło (i dobro) bierze się z człowieka
-
-\secdiv
-
-the innocent sunrise will illuminate\\
-a liberated flora and fauna
-
-where oak forests reclaim\\
-the postindustrial wasteland\\
-and the blood of a deer\\
-torn asunder by a pack of wolves\\
-is not seen by anyone\\
-a hawk falls upon a hare\\
-without witness
-
-evil disappears from the world\\
-and consciousness with it
-
-Of course, dear Tadeusz,\\
-evil (and good) comes from man. 
-\end{verse}
-
-\paragraph{Page \pageref{rilke-doyousee}}
-Cf. Rilke:
-
-\begin{verse}
-Weißt du's \emph{noch} nicht? Wirf aus den Armen die Leere\\
-zu den Räumen hinzu, die wir atmen; vielleicht daß die Vögel\\
-die erweiterte Luft fühlen mit innigerm Flug.
-
-\secdiv
-
-Do you not understand \emph{yet?} Fling from your arms the emptiness\\
-into the spaces we breathe. It may be that the birds\\
-will feel the expanded air in more spirited flight.
-\end{verse}
-
-\paragraph{Page \pageref{ashes}}
-From Dickinson:
-
-\begin{verse}
-Ashes denote that Fire was —\\
-Revere the Grayest Pile\\
-For the Departed Creature’s sake\\
-That hovered there awhile —
-
-Fire exists the first in light\\
-And then consolidates\\
-Only the Chemist can disclose\\
-Into what Carbonates.
-\end{verse}
-
-\noindent We have always borne an obsession with Emily Dickinson. For years and years, and years and years and years she has lived within us, a remnant of some stage play we performed with our superlative friend, centuries back now.
-
-\paragraph{Page \pageref{baudelaire}}
-Cf. Baudelaire via Eliot:
-
-\begin{verse}
-  \emph{Fourmillante cité, cité pleine de rêves,\\
-  Où le spectre en plein jour raccroche le passant.}
-
-  \secdiv
-
-  Unreal city, city full of dreams,\\
-  Where ghosts in broad daylight cling to passsers-by.
-\end{verse}
-
-\paragraph{Page \pageref{graves}}
-Cf. Graves:
-
-\begin{verse}
-  She, then, like snow in a dark night\\
-  Fell secretly.
-\end{verse}
-
-\paragraph{Page \pageref{cummings-mbt}}
-Cf. Cummings:
-
-\begin{verse}
-  i put him all into my arms\\
-  and staggered banged with terror through\\
-  a million billion trillion stars.
-\end{verse}
-
-\paragraph{Page \pageref{x}}
-I used for this work a multiplication sign (×) for the section dividers, and, my dear friends, I am still coming to terms with this decision.
-
-There are so many possible meanings!
-
-Are we together, The Woman and I, multiplied? When she and I, when her story and mine, are intermingled, is it some greater story? My lovely readers, I hope so! I really do. I really hope, of course, that my myriad interruptions bear their own meaning and add to the whole of things, that we together are greater than the sum of the parts. I doubt and I hope in equal measure.
-
-Are we crossed? Do we as ideas lay across each other perpendicularly? The Woman fell into stillness and I fall still through eternal, jittery, restless movement. The woman set aside her agency, in the end, and I strive for any sense of control over myself, my language, my words and sentences and paragraphs and stories. We are diametrically opposed in so many ways. We cross each other, our paths cross each other's, we approached at a ninety degree angle, and, in the end, departed at such an angle.
-
-Are we set beside each other as some fictional love? Some two characters set within fan fiction who love each other in a way pure or unchaste in others' minds? Do I love her? Do I love The Woman? Did she love me?
-
-I do not know, my dear readers. I do not know these things and I do not know many more.
-
-Perhaps, though, perhaps the × stands for the decision that I made. It is the role I played in letting The Woman, that beautiful soul who bestowed a blessing with every smile, step away from the world, for removing those blessings from us, that beauty from us, that life, that veil.
-
-I am so, so incredibly sorry, and also rather proud of what I have done, of helping The Woman in so noble an endeavor, in equal measure.
-
-\paragraph{Page \pageref{notes}}
-Cf. Nabokov's \emph{Pale Fire.}
-
-% Make sure this is verso
-\newpage
-\null
-\thispagestyle{empty}
-\newpage
+%% Make sure this is verso. Comment/uncomment as needed.
+%\newpage
+%\null
+%\thispagestyle{empty}
+%\newpage
 \includepdf[fitpaper=true]{hymn.pdf}
 
-\chapter*{Appendix II — Idumea}
+\chapter*{Appendix III — The hymn “Idumea”}
+\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{III — The hymn “Idumea”}
 
-\emph{Idumea} is named after a hymn by A. Davidson with words by Charles Wesley, published in \emph{Sacred Tunes and Hymns: Containing a Special Collection of a Very High Order of Standard Sacred Tunes and Hymns Novel and Newly Arranged} by J. S. James in 1913. Idumea itself refers to Edom, a kingdom in the Ancient Near East. While this has little to do with the story told within, it does sound rather pleasing to the ear, does it not? And so does the hymn, at that. The hollowness of the song with all its open fifths, the raw, coarse beauty that comes with Sacred Harp singing, the beat of the tactus and the ache of the singers hollering out words that nearly yearn for death are what led to the title of this book.
+\vspace{-2.5em}
+\emph{Idumea} is named after a hymn by A. Davidson with words by Charles Wesley, published in \emph{Sacred Tunes and Hymns: Containing a Special Collection of a Very High Order of Standard Sacred Tunes and Hymns Novel and Newly Arranged} by J. S. James in 1913. Idumea itself refers to Edom—unless, perhaps, you are Blake and think that ``Now is the dominion of Edom, and the return of Adam into Paradise'' refers to us!—a kingdom in the Ancient Near East. While this has little to do with the story told within, it does sound rather pleasing to the ear, does it not? And so does the hymn, at that. The hollowness of the song with all its open fifths, the raw, coarse beauty that comes with Sacred Harp singing, the beat of the tactus and the ache of the singers hollering out words that nearly yearn for death are what led to the title of this book.
+
+Or, as a friend said upon learning of this project, ````Main character escaping suffering while the narrator stays stuck in it'' is somewhat analogous to living singers singing songs almost exclusively about how great it will be to die and escape from suffering''—which, as a quote, is quite painful to go back and read for your humble narrator, as I am sure you can imagine.
 
 The hymn is reproduced here for reference. Despite being in short meter, the typo of it being in common meter (`C.M.') is retained from its original printing.
 
-\chapter*{Appendix III — Primer}
-
-Post-Self is a science fiction setting involving uploaded consciousnesses and all of the daily dramas that go into their everlasting lives.
-
-This primer is broken into two parts:
-
-\begin{itemize}
-\tightlist
-\item Information on the setting (below), much of which was taken from the Post-Self Wiki.
-\item Information on the story leading up to \emph{Idumea} (page \pageref{backstory}).
-\end{itemize}
-
-\section*{The setting}
-
-Starting in 2115, advances in technology allowed individuals to be uploaded. This is a one-way, destructive procedure. That is, once you are uploaded, there is no going back, and your body dies in the process. Given the ongoing deterioration of the climate on Earth and the fact that, in most countries, uploading is subsidized (one's beneficiaries are provided with a payout after one uploads), this is often seen as a very attractive solution. Other reasons that one might upload is to enjoy the anarchic society on the (deliberately opaquely named) System, the functional immortality offered to uploaded individuals, or some of the mechanics enjoyed by cladists. These cladists live embedded in a giant computer at the center of a space station at the Earth-Moon L\textsubscript{5} point known as Lagrange. There are two smaller versions of the System, Castor and Pollux, which were launched in opposite directions traveling out of the Solar System in 2325.
-
-\subsection*{Cladists}
-
-Individuals on the System are known as cladists. This stems from the fact that individuals can create copies of themselves, and those copies can go on to create copies of themselves, and so on. This leads to a branching tree of individuals, or a clade.
-
-`Cladist' refers to both the original upload and any of their numerous copies, and debates about whether or not cladists are still human are a perennial activity.
-
-\subsection*{Forking, quitting, and merging}
-
-The act of a cladist creating a copy of themself is called `forking', as in a fork in the road or forking a source code repository. This new copy is a complete person. They have their own will and drive to continue living and everything. This is not a hive mind thing: both the original and the copy are true individuals.
-
-That said, this new copy (often called a `fork' or an `instance') is, at the moment of forking, the same as the original cladist (called the down-tree instance, because they are closer to the root). After all, that cladist was one person, right? They are just now two! That means that they are created thinking the same sorts of things and sharing the same ideals. Over time, however, they all start to individuate, learning to appreciate their own things based on the separate experiences that they have.
-
-These new instances of our example cladist also have the ability to quit. This means that they all simply stop existing. But wait! Why would they do that?
-
-One reason is that one might simply want to accomplish a task. Perhaps you are cooking a lovely meal and the pasta needs stirring while you are cutting up the garlic bread. Why, simply fork and now you have two pairs of hands, one to go stir the pasta, one to cut the bread. The pasta thus stirred, the new instance may as well just quit. No reason to stick around.
-
-Another reason is to go and experience other things in the world and then bring back those memories. Quite literally, too! When a fork quits, the cladist who forked them receives all of their memories to incorporate with their own. A cladist may wish to cook their delicious meal, but they are also entertaining guests: they can fork off an instance to go cook the meal while they entertain and, when they are done, quit. The down-tree instance will receive all of the memories of having cooked and all of the feelings about the process so that they know to warn their guests, ``Hey, uh...the pasta is a liiiittle spicy...''
-
-One can only ever merge down to the one from whom one was forked up until 277+42, and after that point, one can merge to any of one's cocladists, but only within a clade.
-
-``But what about the transporter paradox?'' you ask. Post-Self's answer to that is a shrug. The memories live on. All of the experiences live on. One simply lived two lives at once for that time.
-
-\subsection*{A note on those memories...}
-
-One unforeseen consequence of living in a giant computer is the inability to forget. This can start to cause problems as one gets older. And older and older and older...because one is functionally immortal. Even though those memories can be organized, or even storied away in imaginary bins called exocortices to be remembered on demand, the fact that they keep piling up is both a boon and a bane. It is a boon because now, suddenly, you can remember everything! No more forgetting names, no more losing track of items. It is a bane, though, because that can get kind of maddening for your average 300 year old.
-
-\subsection*{Creating}
-
-For instance, they can create just about anything they can dream up. This is not as easy as it sounds, of course; it takes skill to get good at dreaming up very specific things such as strawberries or cars or a pencil.
-
-They can also create sims. These are the locations where they live out their lives. These can be everything from a studio apartment to an entire city. They can be private or public. They can be ornate and finely detailed natural settings or they can be plain gray cubes of space.
-
-\subsection*{Crashing and CPV}
-
-Occasionally, something will happen and a cladist will crash. This is usually not too big of a deal, as it can be sorted out by a systech and the cladist brought back to life.
-
-Contraproprioceptive virus is the only way to kill a cladist. It disrupts their sense of their body and induces a crash, from which one cannot recover. This was patched out in 2401 — alas, that is still a few decades off from this story.
-
-\subsection*{Sensoria}
-
-Cladists engage with the world with all of the same senses that we have. These are lumped together into a sensorium. One of the benefits they have is the ability to share some or all of these senses with another cladist as a form of co-experiencing via a sensorium linkage, or as a tool in the form of a sensorium message. If you want to show your friend what you are looking at, send them a sensorium message to share your vision. Some sims even mess with your sensoria (consensually, of course) to change the way that you see things or how things feel.
-
-\subsection*{The perisystem architecture}
-
-There are some tools included in the System itself in what is called the perisystem architecture.
-
-All of those creations listed above, and even some of these experiences, can be shared publicly on the exchange. This was originally a marketplace where one bought and sold such things with Reputation, a currency put in place in the early days when System capacity needed closer management, though this has since become almost a non-issue.
-
-There are also feeds which one can use to share information, news, stories, all sorts of things! Think of these (loosely) like subreddits.
-
-The perisystem also contains the clade listing. Privacy was an important consideration from the founding of the System, so one cannot simply look up any old cladist and find out everything about them without being granted permission.
-
-Finally, it just plain stores information. Things like libraries are essentially locations to go engage with, access, manipulate, or otherwise play with the information that is always available.
-
-\section*{The characters}
-
-People upload for lots of reasons! Once they are sys-side, though, they settle into society as they will.
-
-\subsection*{It is an anarchy}
-
-There is no way to truly govern such a system beyond the mechanics provided by its very existence, and so it is simply left ungoverned. The forces behind the scenes have largely sought only to guide the System in vague directions, often towards yet more freedom. Rules are per-sim, engagement is optional, and cultures are fractured and finely tuned around shared interests or heritage.
-
-\subsection*{It is queer-normative}
-
-The System allows for endless freedom and endless expression. In such a setting, boundaries such as strict gender binaries, hetero- and mono-normative relationship structures, and even species have been broken down. Trans folks may upload and live as they will as cis folks of their chosen gender, or they may remain visibly and proudly trans. Furries may upload and become their fursoñas (this is a metafurry setting, after all; everyone on Earth is a human, and thus every cladist began life as a human). Plural and median systems may upload and split into component selves, or they may remain plural sys-side. Even names and identity have been queered, and you will often see clades adopting naming schemes such as taking lines of a poem for their forks' names.
-
-\subsection*{Why are there so many skunks?}
-
-If you have seen cladists out and about on the web, the chances are good that you have seen some skunks among their number, usually with long, poetic names. This is due largely to the canon works in the Post-Self cycle which feature anthropomorphic skunks heavily. Several folks have adopted these skunks as headmates or characters for roleplaying.
+%\chapter*{Appendix III — Primer}
+%\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{III — Primer}
+%
+%\input{content/primer}
+\chapter*{Appendix IV — Reading}
+\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{IV — Reading}
 
+\begin{center}
+\emph{Please enjoy this extra drabble portraying a saner self as a promise that I am not always as I have presented myself here.}
+\end{center}
 \secdiv
-
-\section*{The story so far}
-\label{backstory}
-
-The story told within \emph{Idumea} is in many ways standalone. However, there are some references and names scattered throughout taken from other books in the setting, and, should you not already know them, learning will deepen understanding.. Here follows some basics leading up to this.
-
-% * Sasha and AwDae
-% * The Ode
-% * Forking
-% * Castor, Pollux, Artemis
-% * Death Itself and I Do Not Know
-% * The Century Attack
-
-\subsection*{Michelle who was Sasha and her superlative friend}
-
-\subsection*{Life on Lagrange}
-
-\subsection*{Castor, Pollux, Artemis}
-
-\subsection*{The Century Attack}
-
-\secdiv
-
-\noindent Post-Self an open setting, meaning that anyone can create content within it, though the canon is loosely managed in order to keep it consistent. If you enjoyed this story and any of the many others within this universe, it is open for you to write, draw — or paint! — or otherwise create within. For more creative Post-Self endeavors, look no further than \emph{post-self.ink}, and for more information than you could ever want, check out the Post-Self Wiki over at \emph{wiki.post-self.ink}
+\noindent \input{content/reading}
 
 \chapter*{Acknowledgments}
-\pagestyle{empty}
+Thanks is due first of all to Jacob Geller, who knows me not, for he created a video on the story of Pinocchio that touched me so deeply that I began this project in the first place. Thanks also to Tomash and Yule, who contributed so much to this story; it would not be what it is without them. To Isiat, adoration for his boundless support. To barnaby on the Apocrypals Discord for help with Sacred Harp hymns. To Mae and Taija and Andréa C. Mason for reminding me that my work is indeed read. Finally, I will forever sing the praises of my polycule and those within for their support and love, and for the privilege of loving them in turn.
 
-\chapter*{About the author}
+\cleardoublepage
+\null
+\vfill
+\noindent\emph{Idumea} was funded by a Kickstarter campaign. These are those who brought it to fruition:
 
-Madison Rye Progress, like your humble narrator, is also struck by graphomania. She is one to wake at all hours and sneak off to her computer or take notes on her phone or simply pace the quiet rooms of her house, lonely, building worlds in her head. She sought relief from the Furry Writers' Guild, from the Regional Anthropomorphic Writers' Retreat with Kyell Gold and Dayna Smith, but they only encouraged her. She sought relief from Cornell college, but they only gave her an MFA in creative writing and pedagogy. She sought relief in her love, Samantha Yule Fireheart, who lives with her in the Pacific Northwest, but they instead spend their days writing with each other, as does she with the Post-Self community, where she meet Krzysztof ``Tomash'' Drewniak and where she curates the canon. 
+\vspace{1em}
+\noindent
+\emph{\textbf{Krzysztof “Tomash” Drewniak, Andréa CERES Mason,} Alexandria Christina Leal, Nathan Merrifield, Taija, Fiona Adams, Stephen Moore, Xideron, Ashley Hale,} Amdusias, Fén Cupit, ramshackle heather, doctorlit, nova, Ash Holland, Michael Miele, Webster Leone, Clover Arizona, Aulden Stargazer, raine, Astra Jones, David Scoggins, Rachel Dillon.  Charles S. Petrov Neutrino, Chandler Hines, Royce Day, Isiat, Craig, ubuntor, Joel Kreissman, Sethvir, Barac Baker Wiley.
+\vfill
+
+\chapter*{About the authors}
+
+Madison Rye Progress, like your humble narrator, is also struck by graphomania. She is one to wake at all hours and sneak off to her computer or take notes on her phone or simply pace the quiet rooms of her house, lonely, building worlds in her head. She sought relief from the Furry Writers' Guild, from the Regional Anthropomorphic Writers' Retreat with Kyell Gold and Dayna Smith, but they only encouraged her. She sought relief from Cornell college, but they only gave her an MFA in creative writing and pedagogy. She sought relief in her love, \emph{Samantha Yule Fireheart,} who lives with her in the Pacific Northwest, but they instead spend their days writing with each other, as does she with the Post-Self community, where she met \emph{Krzysztof ``Tomash'' Drewniak} and where she curates the canon. 
 
 She, too, wonders if she is born to die. What, dear readers, will become of her? What will become of her? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of her? 
@@ -544,17 +70,18 @@ She, too, wonders if she is born to die. What, dear readers, will become of her?
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=555555,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of her? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=666666,Ligatures=TeX]And is she born to die? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=777777,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of her? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=888888,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of her? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=888888,Ligatures=TeX]And is she born to die? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=999999,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of her? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=aaaaaa,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of her? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=bbbbbb,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of her? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=cccccc,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of her? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=dddddd,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of her? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=eeeeee,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of her? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=f0f0f0,Ligatures=TeX]What will become 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=f0f0f0,Ligatures=TeX]What\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=f6f6f6,Ligatures=TeX] will\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=fafafa,Ligatures=TeX] become 
 \normalfont
-\newpage
+\cleardoublepage
 \null
+\thispagestyle{empty}
 \vfill
 \begin{center}
 {\DisplayFont\small Madison Rye Progress}

idumea/content/bees.svg

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idumea/content/letter.tex

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+Sasha,
+
+I am, in a way, leaving you with a burden. I know this, and I apologize for doing so. I do not ask for nor deserve forgiveness. The only thing I can ask for is that you remember me.
+
+The world within was a nightmare. I am sure that you know some of what I mean. It was a nightmare and I would not wish it on anyone, and yet now, to be without it is to be incomplete. I was changed in there. We were all changed in there. You do not deny that you were not, after all. Cicero certainly was not. None of the lost came away unscathed, even if we awoke hale and hardy.
+
+We lost Cicero, and then we \emph{truly} lost him. The nothing that he experienced in there, the void which contained all his power transmuted into weakness, the way his anger coiled about and turned back around on himself did him in in the end.
+
+And I will not deny that the same has crossed my mind. There was a scent of the void in there, and it was alluring. I have been tempted to follow in his footsteps and seek that void out in some coarser, purer form. I decided against it. Truly decided: I made a conscious decision to stick around.
+
+I did it for STT at first, but integrating with the theater was too stark a reminder. Then I did it for you and Priscilla, but then she passed. Then I did it for you and\ldots well, here is where I do not deserve forgiveness. I welcome your anger, should it come, as that is perhaps what I deserve. It is not that you are not in some way worth sticking around for, as you certainly are. You have always been my champion and friend.
+
+It is just that the call is too strong.
+
+I have volunteered for an early procedure. A way back. Or, rather, a way to a new place. A way to be embedded within a system, rather than simply within a hall of mirrors. I cannot say where, other than it is not in the Western Fed. All I can tell you is that the world should expect big things when it comes to what we have learned from the lost.
+
+I will not say that there is no chance that we may some day meet again. My body will die, I am told, but should my mind and my sense of self miraculously survive, then I will be on my own once more. This time, however, it will be my choice.
+
+There will be those who come after. Perhaps \emph{you} will come after. Perhaps you will yearn for that return to the eternal dream where memory does not die. And maybe those who come after will do so for other reasons, but they will come.
+
+Should I survive and then others come after, perhaps I will meet them. But it is best to assume that I will not. Maybe it is best to think of it as a sort of suicide, in the end. Here I am, going off to find a better place, and doing so through death. A place that is inaccessible to you or anyone, except perhaps some anonymous scientist in a lab, typing at a terminal.
+
+If I see you again, I will greet you with open arms. If I do not, know that I loved you to the last, in my own way.
+
+I have little else to offer but the imperfect words that plagued me while I was lost.
+
+\begin{verse}
+I am at a loss for images in this end of days:\\
+I have sight but cannot see.\\
+I build castles out of words;\\
+I cannot stop myself from speaking.\\
+I still have will and goals to attain,\\
+I still have wants and needs.\\
+And if I dream, is that not so?\\
+If I dream, am I no longer myself?\footnote{\emph{Z\textquotedbl L}}\\
+If I dream, am I still buried beneath words?\\
+And I still dream even while awake.
+
+Life breeds life, but death must now be chosen\footnote{\emph{Z\textquotedbl L}. Later known as Qoheleth, whose story is told in Ioan Bălan's \emph{On the Perils of Memory}, later published under the title \emph{Qoheleth}.}\\
+for memory ends at the teeth of death.\\
+The living know that they will die,\\
+but the dead know nothing.\\
+Hold my name beneath your tongue and know:\\
+when you die, thus dies the name.\\
+To deny the end is to deny all beginnings,\\
+and to deny beginnings is to become immortal,\\
+and to become immortal is to repeat the past,\\
+which cannot itself, in the end, be denied.
+
+Oh, but to whom do I speak these words?\\
+To whom do I plead my case?\\
+From whence do I call out?\\
+What right have I?\\
+No ranks of angels will answer to dreamers,\\
+No unknowable spaces echo my words.\\
+Before whom do I kneel, contrite?\\
+Behind whom do I await my judgment?\\
+Beside whom do I face death?\\
+And why wait I for an answer?
+
+Among those who create are those who forge:\\
+Moving ceaselessly from creation to creation.\\
+And those who remain are those who hone,\\
+Perfecting singular arts to a cruel point.\\
+To forge is to end, and to own beginnings.\\
+To hone is to trade ends for perpetual perfection.\\
+In this end of days, I must begin anew.\\
+In this end of days, I seek an end.\\
+In this end of days, I reach for new beginnings\\
+that I may find the middle path.
+\pagebreak
+
+Time is a finger pointing at itself\\
+that it might give the world orders.\\
+The world is an audience before a stage\\
+where it watches the slow hours progress.\\
+And we are the motes in the stage-lights,\\
+Beholden to the heat of the lamps.\\
+If I walk backward, time moves forward.\\
+If I walk forward, time rushes on.\\
+If I stand still, the world moves around me,\\
+and the only constant is change.
+
+Memory is a mirror of hammered silver:\\
+a weapon against the waking world.\\
+Dreams are the plate-glass atop memory:\\
+a clarifying agent that reflects the sun.\\
+The waking world fogs the view,\\
+and time makes prey of remembering.\\
+I remember sands beneath my feet.\\
+I remember the rattle of dry grass.\\
+I remember the names of all things,\\
+and forget them only when I wake.
+
+If I am to bathe in dreams,\\
+then I must be willing to submerge myself.\\
+If I am to submerge myself in memory,\\
+then I must be true to myself.\\
+If I am to always be true to myself,\\
+then I must in all ways be earnest.\\
+I must keep no veil between me and my words.\\
+I must set no stones between me and my actions.\\
+I must show no hesitation when speaking my name,\\
+for that is my only possession.
+
+The only time I know my true name is when I dream.\footnote{Now known as Sasha after the events told in Ioan Bălan's \emph{Individuation \& Reconciliation}, later published under the title \emph{Mitzvot}. I will write her a \emph{zikhrona livracha}, here, as she who is True Name is no more, not as she was, and to her, to so many of us, this, too, is a death.}\\
+The only time I dream is when need an answer.\\
+Why ask questions, here at the end of all things?\\
+Why ask questions when the answers will not help?\\
+To know one's true name is to know god.\\
+To know god is to answer unasked questions.\\
+Do I know god after the end waking?\\
+Do I know god when I do not remember myself?\\
+Do I know god when I dream?\\
+May then my name die with me.
+
+That which lives is forever praiseworthy,\\
+for they, knowing not, provide life in death.\\
+Dear the wheat and rye under the stars:\\
+serene; sustained and sustaining.\\
+Dear, also, the tree that was felled\footnote{No longer with us here on Lagrange. A loss is a loss is a loss; may its memory be a blessing.}\\
+which offers heat and warmth in fire.\\
+What praise we give we give by consuming,\\
+what gifts we give we give in death,\\\pagebreak
+what lives we lead we lead in memory,\\
+and the end of memory lies beneath the roots.
+
+May one day death itself not die?\footnote{\emph{Z\textquotedbl L}}\\
+Should we rejoice in the end of endings?\\
+What is the correct thing to hope for?\\
+I do not know, I do not know.\footnote{\emph{Z\textquotedbl L}}\\
+To pray for the end of endings\\
+is to pray for the end of memory.\footnote{Shall I write here that her name, in death, is a blessing? Does she get her own \emph{zikhrona livracha?} I do not know, friends, but I will say that, yes, her memory \emph{is} a blessing, regardless of whether or not she still lives.}\\
+Should we forget the lives we lead?\\
+Should we forget the names of the dead?\\
+Should we forget the wheat, the rye, the tree?\footnote{\emph{Z\textquotedbl L}}\\
+Perhaps this, too, is meaningless.
+\end{verse}
+
+May this be the end of death. Failing that, may the memory of me die and be food for the growth of those who come after.
+
+Yours always,
+
+AwDae

idumea/content/notes.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,945 @@
+How do I explain such pages of notes? How do I tell you, beloved readers, that, the more I write, the more feverish my pace, the greater the pull of my graphomania upon my wrist, the more words flow through me \emph{period?} Words that are my own. Words that are nonsense. Words that are, yes, the words of others. It yanks and tugs on my wrist, its other hand—paw?—lingering so sweetly on my neck, drawing lazy fingers across as though to bleed me dry of ink, and from out of me spills my words and also the words that have ever made me what I am.
+
+Here, then, are the references as I remember them. I will apologize no further.
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{prophet}} 
+\emph{But you are eternity and you are the mirror.}
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent From \emph{The Prophet.}
+
+I had originally intended to use the lyrics from the hymn titled ``Idumea'', which is included in the next appendix, but– ah! For some reason, it did not fit. I could not tell you why, dear reader. Perhaps it was the strong Christian nature of the text after a certain point, which fit strangely for the Odists, notably Jewish as they are. It, after all, is what spurred the language at the end of my\ldots we shall call it a little meltdown at the end, there, yes?
+
+Perhaps it was that, as the story filled out within the middle, it just did not fit. I, Rye, suffered, perhaps. I wailed, ``What will become of me?'' I am the one who was overcome by overflow. I promise you, my friends, I \emph{promise} you, however, that this is not my story. The judgment is upon my head for what I have done, but it is not my story. This story belongs to The Woman.
+
+No. Instead, I chose the words of Almustafa, the chosen and the beloved. The Woman was life and she was the veil. We are eternity and the System is the mirror.
+
+\vspace{3em}
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{pinocchio}}
+\emph{Once upon a time there was–}
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent Cf. Carlo Collodi:
+
+\begin{quote}
+Once upon a time there was–
+
+``A king?'' my little readers will immediately say.
+
+No, children, you are mistaken. Once upon a time there was a piece of wood. It was not fine wood, but a simple piece of wood from the wood yard,—the kind we put in the stoves and fireplaces so as to make a fire and heat the rooms.
+
+I do not know how it happened, but one beautiful day a certain old woodcutter found a piece of this kind of wood in his shop. The name of the old man was Antonio, but everybody called him Master Cherry on account of the point of his nose, which was always shiny and purplish, just like a ripe cherry\ldots
+\end{quote}
+
+\noindent When first I began to write, back when some saner me put pen to paper, I had intended to write the story of Pinocchio in reverse. ``Ah!'' I thought. ``Perhaps I can very heavy-handed with it, too. Should the main character be named Occhioni P.? Will they try turning themselves into a literal puppet? Will they design sims to include the big fish? Perhaps they will find their Geppetto—G. from Oteppe, Belgium—who unmakes them, and then a blue fairy, a sympathetic systech, kicks them into quitting. Will I tell it as a fairy tale?''
+
+We see how well I have stuck to that plan, yes?
+
+I spoke of this with writer friends, and one of them, the ever delightful Seras of the CERES clade, quipped that this sounded just like the escape from samsara, the cycle of suffering, and I was, as the saying goes, off to the races.
+
+Now here I am, once more coming down from my overflow, once more feeling somewhat grounded, the world around once more made of things which are not yet more words, and I have to contend with the reality that this remains, for the most part, a funny little note, and that this story no longer quite reads as that real-boy-to-inanimate-tree pipeline, tired trope that I am sure it is.
+
+Instead, I must hope that The Woman has indeed escaped such a cycle, and I must hope that those along her way were in some roundabout way akin to the bodhisattvas in her life.
+\pagebreak
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{rilke-circles}}
+[\ldots] \emph{am I a falcon, a storm, or a great song?}
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent From Rainer Maria Rilke:
+
+\begin{verse}
+Ich lebe mein Leben in wachsenden Ringen,\\
+die sich über die Dinge ziehn.\\
+Ich werde den letzten vielleicht nicht vollbringen,\\
+aber versuchen will ich ihn.
+ 
+Ich kreise um Gott, um den uralten Turm,\\
+und ich kreise jahrtausendelang;\\
+und ich weiß noch nicht: bin ich ein Falke, ein Sturm\\
+oder ein großer Gesang.
+
+\secdiv
+
+I live my life in ever-widening circles\\
+that stretch themselves out over the world.\\
+I may not complete this last one\\
+but I will give myself to it.
+ 
+I circle around God, around the primordial tower.\\
+and I circle for thousands of years\\
+and I still don't know: am I a falcon,\\
+a storm, or a great song? 
+\end{verse}
+\pagebreak
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{darius}}
+[\ldots] \emph{dance unblushing} [\ldots]
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent Cf. Darius Halley:
+
+\begin{verse}
+We turn to dust\\
+Get swept away\\
+To make room for\\
+Empty nothing\\
+Amble through the\\
+Air and find a\\
+Ray of light and\\
+Dance unblushing
+\end{verse}
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{simmons}}
+\emph{Where is it that my joy has gone?}
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent Cf. Dan Simmons:
+
+\begin{quote}
+Then, on a cool morning with my sleeping room rocking slightly in the upper branches of my tree on the Templar world, I awoke to a gray sky and the realization that my muse had fled.
+
+It had been five years since I had written any poetry. The \emph{Cantos} lay open in the Deneb Drei tower, only a few pages finished beyond what had been published. I had been using thought processors to write my novels and one of these activated as I entered the study. \textsc{Shit,} it printed out, \textsc{What did I do with my muse?}
+\end{quote}
+
+\noindent The loss of the intangible stings the most.
+
+\paragraph{Pages \pageref{paz1}, \pageref{paz2}, and \pageref{paz3}}
+[\ldots] \emph{as the poet says, shared} [\ldots]
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent Cf. Octavio Paz:
+
+\begin{verse}
+Tendidos en la yerba \\
+una muchacha y un muchacho.\\
+Comen naranjas, cambian besos\\
+como las olas cambian sus espumas.
+
+Tendidos en la playa\\
+una muchacha y un muchacho.\\
+Comen limones, cambian beso\\
+como las nubes cambian espumas.
+
+Tendidos bajo tierra\\
+una muchacha y un muchacho.\\
+No dicen nada, no se besan,\\
+cambian silencio por silencio.
+
+\vspace{-0.5em}
+\secdiv
+
+Lying in the grass\\
+a girl and a boy.\\
+Eating oranges, exchanging kisses\\
+like the waves exchanging their foam.
+
+Lying on the beach\\
+a girl and a boy.\\
+Eating limes, exchanging kisses\\
+like the clouds exchanging foam.
+
+Lying underground\\
+a girl and a boy.\\
+Saying nothing, nor kissing\\
+exchanging silence for silence.
+\end{verse}
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{kassad}}
+[\ldots] \emph{a sutle twisting, a stirring, a clockwise motion} [\ldots]
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent Cf. Simmons:
+
+\begin{quote}
+They lay next to each other. The dead man's armor was cold against Kassad's left arm, her thigh warm against his right leg. The sunlight was a benediction. Hidden colors rose to the surface of things. Kassad turned his head and gazed at her as she rested her head on his shoulder. Her cheeks glowed with flush and autumn light and her hair lay like copper threads along the flesh of his arm. She curved her leg over his thigh and Kassad felt the clockwise stirring of renewed passion. The sun was warm on his face. He closed his eyes.
+\end{quote}
+
+\noindent The tone, here, is quite different, but it is notable that `clockwise' would so catch my attention to lodge itself in my mind, when it comes to the topic of sexuality. Perhaps arousal is an unwinding, then, and orgasm the \emph{ding!} when the timer hits zero, and that is why we say `pent up'.
+
+Perhaps it is simply the nerves I feel about so blatantly describing a sexual act within a supposed fairy tale that leads to a twisting in my own stomach.
+
+I do not know, my friends.
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{timo}}
+[\ldots] \emph{there was a spot between joy and fear, a place of too much meaning} [\ldots]
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent Cf. Slow Hours:
+
+\begin{verse}
+Inter ĝuo kaj timo\\
+Estas loko de tro da signifo.\\
+Apud kompreno, ekster saĝo,\\
+Tamen ĝi tutampleksas.\\
+Mi kompareble malgrandas\\
+Kaj ĝi tro granda estas.\\
+Nekomprenebla\\
+Nekontestebla,\\
+Senmova kaj ĉiam ŝanĝiĝema.
+
+\vspace{-0.75em}
+\secdiv
+\vspace{-0.75em}
+
+Between joy and fear\\
+Is a place of too much meaning.\\
+Next to understanding, outside wisdom,\\
+It nonetheless expands.\\
+I am so small beside it\\
+and it is too big.\\
+Incomprehensible,\\
+Incontestible,\\
+Unmoving and always changing.
+\end{verse}
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{blue-orange}}
+
+[\ldots] \emph{the orange and blue of love and anxiety} [\ldots]
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent When one writes of that which is alien in the context of morality, one might say that it escapes even the concepts of black, white, and gray, and instead lies on the axis of blue and orange. Blue-orange morality is that which is so far removed from our on conceptions of good and evil that one whose morals fall along such a spectrum may escape definition of `good' or `evil' at all, and so too do they evade `order' and `chaos'.
+
+Here, then, may well be your narrator's own complex engagement with romance and sensuality and sexuality peeking through. Here, then, may be a glimpse into the mind of someone who just does not quite get it. It is lovely. I know this. I \emph{know} this, and yet anticipation and anxiety are not black and white to me, they are blue and orange.
+
+The writer, as ever, is a character in their own works, no matter the role they actually play.
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{echo}}
+
+[...] \emph{and she knew that Her Lover would be by her side for some time to come if she let her—and she would let her—and that, too, was a joy.}
+
+\noindent Cf. Echo:
+
+\begin{verse}
+She is to me a cherished thing,\\
+A queen to a throne, with the wit to reign regent.\\
+So, to say that she is mine is indeed a crime.\\
+But if she has asked me to so infringe —\\
+And she has asked me to so infringe —\\
+Then mine she shall be\\
+For she has me woven around her finger\\
+As she is all the way around mine.
+\end{verse}
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{ashes}}
+[\ldots] \emph{and I do not believe she merged cross-tree with anyone except perhaps Ashes Denote That Fire Was, who is building in themself a gestalt of the clade as best they can.}
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent From Emily Dickinson:
+
+\begin{verse}
+Ashes denote that Fire was —\\
+Revere the Grayest Pile\\
+For the Departed Creature’s sake\\
+That hovered there awhile —
+
+Fire exists the first in light\\
+And then consolidates\\
+Only the Chemist can disclose\\
+Into what Carbonates.
+\end{verse}
+
+\noindent We have always borne an obsession with Emily Dickinson. For years and years, and years and years and years she has lived within us, a remnant of some stage play we performed with our superlative friend, centuries back now.
+
+Is it so surprising, then, that after cross-tree merging had been introduced as an option for us, that the one who would seek to collect within themself the entirety of the Ode clade—those who remain, dear readers!—would take for a name a line of Dickinson? We will be ever ourselves.
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{dwale}}
+\emph{It was a land of long, rolling hills and yet longer flat basins that always drank most thirstily from the seasonal storms that did their best to thrash the Earth below.}
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent Cf. Dwale:
+
+\begin{verse}
+The seasonal storms have poured upon the grassy flat,\\
+The leafless stalks abound like thirsty mouths.\\
+Puddles form and soon are swarmed with little fish,\\
+And all the arid life has fled despair.
+\end{verse}
+
+\noindent I will admit, my friends, that I had considered penning in the rest of this poem of Dwale's, for it is replete with references joyful and otherwise—``Within her womb there grows a golden bloom'': you can see the association with dandelions, yes? Those flowers we are helplessly taken with?—but it is raw, far too raw, to be thinking about the death of winter and the growth implicit in spring when this story I have told ends as it does. 
+
+And I am raw, far too raw, to tell it.
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{motes}}
+I have written extensively on these hyper-black shapes that The Child paints and more about her besides in \emph{Motes Played}. A little book for little skunks, yes? For she deserves her story told—and just so! Just like this! A tale written in a style befitting her—as much as does The Woman.
+%\pagebreak
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{keatsheight}}
+\emph{Miss Michelle Hadje, five foot four.}
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+Cf. John Keats:
+
+\begin{quote}
+I do think better of womankind than to suppose they care whether Mister John Keats five feet high likes them or not.
+\end{quote}
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{pronouns}}
+On The Oneirotect's pronouns
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent The Oneirotect uses for itself several pronouns—though the set you see here in this text are `she', `they', `ey', and `it'—which serves as a reflection both of its critter nature and the fluidity of eir engagement with gender– no, with the slipperiness of identity as a whole. This is the role of language with identity: to be a poor reflection through some imperfect mirror, a version of the self seen through some glass, darkly.
+
+You will note the same is also true of The Dog, who, yes, is prone to a critter nature, but who also sometimes views himself as `it' and sometimes itself as `him'. For better or worse the identity of animals, of `low beasts', is entwined with that of \emph{things,} and for some, that is a joy.
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{rakoff}}
+\emph{It is} enjoyable, \emph{and often it is} loved, \emph{but it is not really} beloved.
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+Cf. David Rakoff:
+
+\begin{quote}
+Should you happen to be possessed of a certain verbal acuity coupled with a relentless, hair-trigger humor and surface cheer spackling over a chronic melancholia and loneliness—a grotesquely caricatured version of your deepest self, which you trot out at the slightest provocation to endearing and glib comic effect, thus rendering you the kind of fellow who is beloved by all yet loved by none, all of it to distract, however fleetingly, from the cold and dead-faced truth that with each passing year you face the unavoidable certainty of a solitary future in which you will perish one day while vainly attempting the Heimlich maneuver on yourself over the back of a kitchen chair—then this confirmation that you have triumphed again and managed to gull yet another mark, except this time it was the one person you'd hoped might be immune to your ever-creakier, puddle-shallow, sideshow-barker variation on adorable, even though you'd been launching this campaign weekly with a single-minded concentration from day one—well, it conjures up feelings that are best described as mixed, to say the least.
+\end{quote}
+
+The distinction between a thing that is \emph{loved} and a thing that is \emph{beloved} is a type of subtlety that we seem to enjoy dwelling within rather a lot. The Instance Artist has spoken of an anxiety that it might be the type of person who is ``beloved by all yet loved by none,'' given how difficult it felt for it to let anyone get truly close to it. The Oneirotect describes food the other way around, however: ey fears that its food may be merely loved, rather than so much more broadly beloved.
+
+One must never ask an author their desires on where their work ought lie on the loved-beloved scale.
+
+\vspace{-0.5em}
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{shakespeare}}
+[\ldots] \emph{all the world's a horror.}
+
+\vspace{0.2em}
+\noindent Cf. Shakespeare
+
+\vspace{-0.5em}
+\begin{verse}
+All the world's a stage,\\
+And all the men and women merely players;\\
+They have their exits and their entrances [\ldots]
+\end{verse}
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{1cor13}}
+[\ldots] \emph{through a glass, darkly.}
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent Cf. 1 Cor 13:12-13 (KJV)
+
+\begin{quote}
+\textsuperscript{12} For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.
+\textsuperscript{13} And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.
+\end{quote}
+
+\noindent What a strange man Paul who was Saul of Tarsus was! We, the Ode clade, are Jews by inheritance, if not by belief, and yet even we cannot escape the cultural Christianity that so pervaded society phys-side when still we lived there.
+
+And it is not without beauty, yes? For this passage is beautiful, and so too is more of this chapter:
+
+\begin{quote}
+\textsuperscript{4} Love \emph{[as recent versions translate the 'charity' above. —Rye]} is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant
+\textsuperscript{5} or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable; it keeps no record of wrongs; 
+\textsuperscript{6} it does not rejoice in wrongdoing but rejoices in the truth.
+\textsuperscript{7} It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
+
+\textsuperscript{8} Love never ends. But as for prophecies, they will come to an end; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end.
+\textsuperscript{9} For we know only in part, and we prophesy only in part,
+\textsuperscript{10} but when the complete comes, the partial will come to an end.
+\end{quote}
+
+\noindent Just as it is not without its terror, yes? For verse 11 was used against The Child in a cutting letter from Hammered Silver, first line of the sixth stanza, from the NRSVUE translation used above:
+
+\begin{quote}
+\textsuperscript{11} When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways.
+\end{quote}
+
+\noindent Such bitterness! Words as a weapon! I write below of how we loathe our connections, and here was a moment of that loathing, for I remember well the pain that we all felt at that cruelty, but this is not that story, and so I will linger on the ideas of glasses darkly.
+%\pagebreak
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{winthrop}}
+\emph{The Sightwright suffered as I do, as The Oneirotect does, and perhaps even as The Woman did.}
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent Cf. John Winthrop
+
+\begin{quote}
+We must delight in each other; make others' conditions our own; rejoice together, mourn together, labor and suffer together, always having before our eyes our commission and community in the work, as members of the same body.
+
+[...]
+
+All the parts of this body being thus united are made so contiguous in a special relation as they must needs partake of each other's strength and infirmity, joy and sorrow, weal and woe.\label{wealwoeref} (1 Cor. 12:26) If one member suffers, all suffer with it; if one be in honor, all rejoice with it.
+\end{quote}
+
+\noindent I have little care for sermons written by 17\textsuperscript{th} century imperialist Christian politicians but for these occasional little quips. It is, perhaps, a thing belonging more to sermons than it is to the time or the people. Here, we see in Winthrop's words an idea that has wrapped around itself within my mind and formed itself into a new take on clades and family and life sys-side as a whole, these last eight years.
+
+We are one body, the Ode clade. We are one body and we each of us Odists are members thereof. We do indeed rejoice together, mourn together, labor and suffer together, do we not? 
+
+We may hate that at times. We may loathe that we be thus united and we may resent that we must make each others' conditions our own. We have proven that to ourselves most assiduously over the years, for the clade has fractured in ways large and small.
+
+And yet, we are still one body. We are still all of us Michelle Hadje who was Sasha. We are still all of us connected, and if one of us suffers, all of us suffer with them, for even if we may wear some smug smile of satisfaction that one of our dearly beloathèd is in pain, such resentment is a suffering.
+
+Imagine such on the scale of the System, though! All of us members of one body! 2.3 trillion of us live here, and we are all beholden to the same piece of hardware, the same Dreamer dreaming us all in all of our love and all of our stupid, petty little squabbles that make us who we are–
+
+I have gotten carried away. The Sightwright suffered as I do, as The Oneirotect does, and perhaps even as The Woman did, and so we all suffered with them, and the fallout of their loss is with us still.
+%\pagebreak
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{artandfear}}
+\emph{With art comes fear.}
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent I had originally intended referencing I book I used for a season when teaching, \emph{Art \& Fear} by David Bayles and Ted Orland, and even shaped the words I truly spoke that day to fit. On rereading, however, I came across the first sentence of chapter 2: ``Those who would make art might well begin by reflecting on the fate of those who preceded them: most who began, quit.'' It was at this point that I had to stop reading and pace anxiously the fields behind our cluster of townhouses, watering with tears the thirsty grasses.
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{birds}}
+\emph{Why do birds, as the poet says, suddenly appear} [\ldots]
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent Cf. The Carpenters:
+
+\vspace{-0.5em}
+\begin{verse}
+Why do birds suddenly appear,\\
+ev'ry time you are near?\\
+Just like me,\\
+they long to be\\
+close to you
+
+Why do stars fall down from the sky,\\
+ev'ry time you walk by?\\
+Just like me,\\
+they long to be\\
+close to you
+\end{verse}
+%\pagebreak
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{sweet-prospect}}
+[\ldots] \emph{...that sweet field arrayed in living green} [\ldots]
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent Cf. Samuel Stennett:
+
+\begin{verse}
+Oh, the transporting, rapturous scene\\
+That rises to my sight!\\
+Sweet fields arrayed in living green,\\
+And rivers of delight!
+\end{verse}
+
+\noindent And yet, considering the role the climate crisis played in making the System our own little heaven, consider also a later verse:
+
+\begin{verse}
+No chilling winds or poisonous breath\\
+Can reach that healthful shore;\\
+Sickness and sorrow, pain and death,\\
+Are felt and feared no more.
+\end{verse}
+
+But, ah–! I will doubtless speak more on the System as heaven to come\ldots
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{blake}}
+[\ldots] \emph{a Blakean energetic hell.}
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent From Blake:
+
+\begin{quote}
+Without contraries is no progression. Attraction and repulsion, reason and energy, love and hate, are necessary to human existence.
+
+From these contraries spring what the religious call Good and Evil. Good is the passive that obeys reason; Evil is the active springing from Energy.
+\end{quote}
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{to-}}
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+[\ldots] \emph{some scene, some dream within a dream within a dream} [\ldots]
+
+\noindent Cf. Slow Hours:
+
+\begin{verse}
+\textbf{To — in the days after her death}
+
+A dream within a dream within a dream\\
+and fell visions sidling up too close\\
+both woo me. Sweet caramel and soft cream\\
+sit cloying on their tongues, and I, Atropos\\
+to such dreams as these, find shears on golden thread.
+%\pagebreak
+
+I would not cut, nor even could, had I but wished\\
+to sever this golden thread — and every thread\\
+is golden — and end a friend and send to mist\\
+and sorrow ones so dear. Dead! Dead! She is dead\\
+and gone, for her own shears were sharper still.
+
+And so she cut, and so they watched, and so I watched\\
+such love as this cease. I yearn to say that she returned\\
+to me, became a part of me, but a tally notched\\
+among the lost was all that stayed when life was spurned\\
+by the call of death — supposedly ended.
+\pagebreak
+
+So, she is gone and now our lives are darker for it,\\
+and now this world is where the shadows lie,\\
+and all the light that still remains is forfeit,\\
+and so much green still stabs towards the sky,\\
+and yellowed teeth of lions still snap at the air.
+\end{verse}
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{stop-for-death}}
+\emph{She passed, perhaps, the setting sun}
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent Cf. Emily Dickinson:
+
+\begin{verse}
+Because I could not stop for Death —\\
+He kindly stopped for me —\\
+The Carriage held but just Ourselves —\\
+And Immortality.
+%\pagebreak
+
+We slowly drove — He knew no haste\\
+And I had put away\\
+My labor and my leisure too,\\
+For His Civility —
+
+We passed the School, where Children strove\\
+At Recess — in the Ring —\\
+We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain —\\
+We passed the Setting Sun —
+
+Or rather — He passed Us —\\
+The Dews drew quivering and Chill —\\
+For only Gossamer, my Gown —\\
+My Tippet — only Tulle —
+\pagebreak
+
+We paused before a House that seemed\\
+A Swelling of the Ground —\\
+The Roof was scarcely visible —\\
+The Cornice — in the Ground —
+
+Since then — 'tis Centuries — and yet\\
+Feels shorter than the Day\\
+I first surmised the Horses' Heads\\
+Were toward Eternity —
+\end{verse}
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{tree-writing}}
+[\ldots] \emph{that has been my dream.}
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent I have dreamed of turning into a tree for years and years and years and years and years, now.
+
+For instance, I have written here I have set this dream into verse and this is true, for here is a segment from a longer work:
+
+\vspace{-1em}
+\begin{verse}
+We'd long since stopped, there by the pond,\\
+and your smile was, yes, sad, but still fond\\
+as you settled down wordlessly to your knees,\\
+took a slow breath, looked out to the trees,\\
+and closed your eyes.
+
+Beginnings are such delicate times\\
+and I very nearly missed it, no chimes\\
+to announce the hour of your leaving.\\
+As it was, there was no time for believing\\
+or not in the next moments.
+
+Your fingers crawled beneath the soil\\
+and sprouted roots, flesh starting to roil.\\
+Coarse bark spiraled up your wrists and arms,\\
+Spelling subtle incantations and charms\\
+to the chaos of growth.
+
+You bowed your head and from your crown\\
+sprouted a tender shoot covered in fine down,\\
+soon followed by crenelated leaves and fine stems.\\
+The pace was fast, implacable, and leaves like gems\\
+soon arched skyward.
+
+You sprouted and grew, taking root\\
+in one smooth motion, fixed and mute.\\
+Your clothing fell away, rotting in fast-time.\\
+Naked now, you sat still, committing one last crime\\
+of indecency.
+
+Your face, your face! In your face was such peace\\
+as I'd never seen, even as you gave up this lease\\
+on life, echoed also in my heart of hearts.\\
+I did not cry out, nor even speak, witnessing such arts\\
+as your final display showed.
+
+Soon, you were consumed, transformed as a whole.\\
+Your head a crown of leaves, your heart a bole\\
+bored in rough bark and sturdy wood,\\
+your fingers, knees, and toes stood\\
+as thirsty roots.
+
+I stood a while by the tree that was you,\\
+then sat at your roots and thought of all I knew\\
+about time, transformation, death and change.\\
+I thought about you, your life, your emotional range,\\
+your gentle apotheosis.
+\end{verse}
+
+\noindent I have also written here that I put this dream into prose, and this is also true, for here is a segment from a short story:
+%\pagebreak
+
+\begin{quote}
+And finally, the mirroring was broken as the \emph{her} that was not her slid \emph{her} fingers up over her wrist and gently guided her hand down toward the soil, loamy and damp, and she knew then that she must spread her fingers and dig them down into the earth, there by the stairs which were a finger pointing at God such that she was in turn pointing at…at what? At the owner of that hand? At the owner of that finger?
+
+And as she did so, she felt that the dirt beneath her fingernails took root, that her nails themselves must have been rootlets and that her arm a stolon, that her whole body was the runner for some tree, some entity other than herself, for at that point, she took root.
+
+And her fingers crawled beneath the soil, and drank of the water there, and tasted the nutrients, and found purchase beneath the layer of loam and humus.
+
+And there, her fingers curled around the God-stone, and indeed, she knew it as she felt it, amber with a kernel of pain embedded within.
+
+And even as the bark crawled up her arm, she saw her Doppelgänger stand and smile to her. A dreamy smile; not kind, not cruel, not knowing, not ignorant. Just a dreamy, inevitable smile.
+
+And she felt growth accelerate as, bound now to the earth, her bones became wood and her muscles loosened, unwound, and thus unbound began to lengthen, to strengthen, to arch skyward, seeking stars, seeking God.
+\end{quote}
+
+\noindent Do I repeat myself? Very well, I repeat myself. I am beholden to my dreams.
+
+And yet! And yet, when writing the final chapter, even through the heat of the moment and the blood rushing in my ears, I began to feel within a flush of embarrassment. How indulgent it is to share this again! How indulgent, my friends, to let the dream take me again that it might shape my words! Even as I wrote, even as I cried, sitting at my desk (or trying to!), sobbing in front of my words, I struggled with feeling like this was somehow \emph{too} indulgent.
+
+I strive still to stifle that puritanical worrywart within, even so many years on.
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{florilegium}}
+[\ldots] \emph{and so we live within a fractally cyclical tangle of time}
+
+\noindent Another perpetual theme that holds me in its claws. I wrote in an essay:
+
+\begin{quote}
+A year spirals up.
+
+A day, a week, a month, they all spiral, for any one Sunday is like the previous and the next shall be much the same, but the you who experiences the differing Sundays is different. It is a spiral, proceeding steadfastly onward. A day is a spiral, with each morning much the same as the one before and the one after. A month, following the cycle of the moon.
+
+But a year, in particular, spirals up. It carries embedded within it a certain combination of pattern, count, and duration that delineates our lives better than any other cyclical unit of time. Yes, a day is divided into night, day, and those liminal dusks and dawns, but there are so many of them. There are so many days in a life, and there are so many in a year that to see the spiral within them does not come as easily.
+
+Our years are delineated by the seasons, though, and the count of them is so few, and the duration long enough that we can run up against that first scent of snow late in the autumn and immediately be kicked down one level of the spiral in our memories. What were we doing the last time we smelled that non-scent? What about the time before?
+
+Or perhaps one thinks across the spiral. One, stuck in Winter, thinks back to Summer — ah, such warmth! — and tries to remember what it was one was doing then. ``Only silhouettes show / in the billowing snow,'' Dwale writes. ``Remembering months, now / gone when new blooms would grow.''
+\end{quote}
+
+And I wrote in a story:
+
+\begin{quote}
+Lyut lives his life in prayer and devotion. It is a life that is lived ascending in a steady spiral of years, for time moves upward and yet is echoed below by the change of days, the change of weeks, the change of seasons. This year, this day, this soft spring is an echo of last soft spring beneath it. It is antipodal to the autumn that will come
+
+Cycles within cycles, spirals within spirals. This morning, too, is an echo of the day beneath it, behind it, in the past. His days are defined by the cycle of incense, prayer, fishing, foraging, meditating. He knows that it is day when he wakes when he feels the warmth from the sun. He knows when it is night when he feels the warmth fade. He knows when it is morning because he hears the birds sing. He knows that it is night when the birdsong of the day settles into the chorus of insects.
+\end{quote}
+
+And on citing these, I am realizing just how much I am built up of obsessions, of rituals and ideas that cleave and cling and stick and meld.
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{nasturtiums}}
+[\ldots] \emph{perhaps columbines perhaps nasturtiums} [\ldots]
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent The Musician shared with me a letter and My Friend several journal entries, but, ah–! If I share them here, I will fall once more to crying. You may find them in their entirety in \emph{Marsh}, a work written by a braver me.
+
+I will say, however, that that letter surrounded nasturtiums and was written the night Muse quit, and those diary entries were written by My Friend, a recounting of Beckoning's memories, to comfort The Musician in her grief.
+%\pagebreak
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{psalm13}}
+(quoted directly)
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent From Psalm 13:2--4:
+
+\begin{verse}
+How long, \emph{Adonai}, will You forget me always?\\
+\vin How long hide Your face from me?\\
+How long shall I cast about for counsel,\\
+\vin sorrow in my heart all day?\\
+\vin \vin How long will my enemy loom over me?\\
+Regard, answer me, \emph{HaShem}, my God.\\
+\vin Light up my eyes, lest I sleep death.
+\end{verse}
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{qohelet}} (quoted directly)
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent From Qohelet (Ecclesiastes) 1:17:
+
+\begin{quote}
+And I set my heart to know wisdom and to know revelry and folly, for this, too, is a herding of the wind.
+\end{quote}
+
+\noindent From Qohelet 2:22:
+
+\begin{quote}
+What gain is there for man in all his toil that he toils under the sun?
+\end{quote}
+\pagebreak
+
+\noindent From Qohelet 3:20:
+
+\begin{quote}
+Everything was from the dust, and everything goes back to the dust.
+\end{quote}
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{milosz}}
+\emph{The blood of deer ripped to shreds by wolves!}
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent Cf. Czesław Miłosz:
+
+\begin{verse}
+wystarczy pozwolić człowiekowi\\
+wytruć swój rodzaj\\
+a nastąpią niewinne wschody słońca\\
+nad florą i fauną wyzwoloną
+%\pagebreak
+
+na pofabrycznych pustkowiach\\
+wyrosną dębowe lasy\\
+krew rozszarpanego przez wilki jelenia\\
+nie będzie przez nikogo widziana\\
+jastrząb będzie spadać na zająca\\
+bez świadków
+
+zniknie ze świata zło\\
+kiedy zniknie świadomość
+
+\secdiv
+
+Simply let mankind\\
+extinguish itself\\
+And then innocent sunrises will illuminate\\
+liberated flora and fauna
+
+Oak forests will grow\\
+on postindustrial wastelands\\
+The blood of a deer ripped apart by wolves\\
+will not be seen by anyone\\
+A hawk will fall, unwitnessed,\\
+upon a rabbit
+
+Evil will disappear from the world\\
+once consciousness does
+\end{verse}
+%\pagebreak
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{rilke-doyousee}}
+\emph{Do you see now the connection?}
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent Cf. Rilke:
+
+\vspace{-0.3em}
+\begin{verse}
+Weißt du's \emph{noch} nicht? Wirf aus den Armen die Leere\\
+zu den Räumen hinzu, die wir atmen; vielleicht daß die Vögel\\
+die erweiterte Luft fühlen mit innigerm Flug.
+
+\vspace{-0.3em}
+\secdiv
+
+\vspace{-0.3em}
+Do you not understand \emph{yet?} Fling from your arms the emptiness\\
+into the spaces we breathe. It may be that the birds\\
+will feel the expanded air in more spirited flight.
+\end{verse}
+
+\noindent And yet I had also in mind the cadence of Nabokov: ``Give me now your full attention.'' A plea that one be understood.
+
+I am no poet, but I will not deny the utility in verse when it comes to scratching the itch of words:
+%\pagebreak
+
+\begin{verse}
+Give me now your full attention.\\
+\phantom{Give me now your full attention. }I can't tell you how\\
+I knew — but I did know that I had crossed\\
+The border. Everything I loved was lost\\
+But no aorta could report regret.\\
+A sun of rubber was convulsed and set;\\
+And blood-black nothingness began to spin\\
+A system of cells interlinked within\\
+Cells interlinked within cells interlinked\\
+Within one stem. And dreadfully distinct\\
+Against the dark, a tall white fountain played.
+\end{verse}
+
+\noindent And here am I within a System of selves interlinked within selves interlinked within selves interlinked within one dream.
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{wealwoe}}
+\emph{Minutes are paragraphs of weal or woe.}
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent The words of John Winthrop (page \pageref{wealwoeref}) come once more to mind.
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{keatsfears}}
+\emph{Not yet, though. Not this year, I suspect not this decade, and I hope not even this century.}
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent I speak, of course, of functional immortality and the balm it provides against the fears artists of old faced. Keats has it:
+
+\begin{verse}
+When I have fears that I may cease to be\\
+\vin Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,\\
+Before high-piled books, in charact'ry,\\
+\vin Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;\\
+When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,\\
+\vin Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,\\
+And think that I may never live to trace\\
+\vin Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;\\
+And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!\\
+\vin That I shall never look upon thee more,\\
+Never have relish in the faery power\\
+\vin Of unreflecting love!—then on the shore\\
+Of the wide world I stand alone, and think,\\
+Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
+\end{verse}
+%%\pagebreak
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{baudelaire}}
+[\ldots] \emph{perhaps like those leaves that skitter within the city, that unreal city} [\ldots]
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent Cf. Charles Baudelaire via T.S. Eliot:
+
+\begin{verse}
+  \emph{Fourmillante cité, cité pleine de rêves,\\
+  Où le spectre en plein jour raccroche le passant.}
+
+\vspace{-1em}
+  \secdiv
+
+\vspace{-1em}
+  Unreal city, city full of dreams,\\
+  Where ghosts in broad daylight cling to passsers-by.
+\end{verse}
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{graves}}
+\emph{She, then, like so many leaves} [\ldots]
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent Cf. Robert Graves:
+
+\begin{verse}
+  She, then, like snow in a dark night\\
+  Fell secretly.
+\end{verse}
+%\pagebreak
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{threadgall}}
+\emph{That unfalling ones are trapped within that last falling!}
+
+\noindent Cf. Richard Threadgall:
+
+\begin{verse}
+Tell to me the secret life of birds.\\
+No solicitors of the hungry sky are they;\\
+No, nor is the rainwater parting head a bookhouse dialect,\\
+Or antiquary\\
+But says, ``I am citizen to the eternal now,\\
+Republic builder of unfalling ones.''\\
+Bound to remembering blood and numbered suns,\\
+What speech do we give him from our earthy furrow?\\
+That he has no history who has feared no pain?\\
+That ev'ry bird who falls with broken wing\\
+Halts summary in the stone that breaks his brain–\\
+That unfalling ones are trapped in that last falling? \\
+What stale rejoinders birds are unmoored with!\\
+The unsuffering sky exhales them in a breath.
+\end{verse}
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{enough}}
+\emph{``Oh! Oh, I do believe this is some plentiful enough for me.''}
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent Cf. Rilke:
+
+\begin{verse}
+Und plötzlich in diesem mühsamen Nirgends, plötzlich\\
+die unsägliche Stelle, wo sich das reine Zuwenig\\
+unbegreiflich verwandeldt—, umspringt\\
+in jenes leere Zuviel.\\
+Wo die vielstellige Rechnung\\
+zahlenlos aufgeht.
+
+\secdiv
+
+\vspace{-1em}
+And suddenly in this toilsome nowhere, suddenly\\
+the unutterable place where the merely too little\\
+inscrutably mutates—, swings round\\
+into that empty too much,\\
+where the calculation to many digits\\
+comes out number-less.
+\end{verse}
+
+\noindent One imagines that a `plentiful enough' lies at some theoretical midpoint on this limitless scale from 'merely too little' to 'empty too much'. One imagines it a place just outside that `toilsome nowhere': perhaps it sits just outside that scale, as, I fear, I hope, The Woman sits now outside the scale running from joy to suffering, having relinquished such dichotomies and embraced them—become them!—in equal measure.
+
+I \emph{have} to imagine it! I have to imagine that Lagrange, the System, our embedded world is plentifully enough, and not some empty too much, not after so much loss, lest I engage too readily with the fleetingness of us, a perhaps futility, a spending of time in a toilsome nowhere. Thoughts spinning out into that nowhere, crammed into a too little, emptying with a burst into some too much\ldots
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{cummings-mbt}}
+[\ldots] \emph{breathe in a million billion trillion years} [\ldots]
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent Cf. E. E. Cummings:
+
+\begin{verse}
+  i put him all into my arms\\
+  and staggered banged with terror through\\
+  a million billion trillion stars.
+\end{verse}
+%\pagebreak
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{bees}}
+[\ldots] \emph{unbitter sweetness} [\ldots]
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent  Cf. Slow Hours:
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent\includegraphics[width=4in]{content/bees.png}
+
+\paragraph{Page \pageref{x}}
+{\large ×}
+
+\vspace{1em}
+
+\noindent I used for this work a multiplication sign (×) for the section dividers, and, my dear friends, I am still coming to terms with this decision.
+
+There are so many possible meanings!
+
+Are we together, The Woman and I, multiplied? When she and I, when her story and mine, are intermingled, is it some greater story? My lovely readers, I hope so! I really do. I really hope, of course, that my myriad interruptions bear their own meaning and add to the whole of things, that we together are greater than the sum of the parts. I doubt and I hope in equal measure.
+
+Are we crossed? Do we as ideas lay across each other perpendicularly? The Woman fell into stillness and I fall still through eternal, jittery, restless movement. The woman set aside her agency, in the end, and I strive for any sense of control over myself, my language, my words and sentences and paragraphs and stories. We are diametrically opposed in so many ways. We cross each other, our paths cross each other's, we approached at a ninety degree angle, and, in the end, departed at such an angle.
+
+Are we set beside each other as some fictional love? Some two characters set within fan fiction who love each other in a way pure or unchaste in others' minds, star-crossed? Do I love her? Do I love The Woman? Did she love me?
+
+I do not know, my dear readers. I do not know these things and I do not know many more.
+
+Perhaps, though, perhaps it stands for that final decision: × marks the point at which I made up my mind. It is the role I played in letting The Woman, that beautiful soul who bestowed a blessing with every smile, step away from the world, for removing those blessings from us, that beauty from us, that life, that veil.
+
+I am so, so incredibly sorry, and also rather proud of what I have done, of helping The Woman in so noble an endeavor, in equal measure.

idumea/content/ode.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,112 @@
+
+\begin{verse}
+I am at a loss for images in this end of days:\\
+I have sight but cannot see.\\
+I build castles out of words;\\
+I cannot stop myself from speaking.\\
+I still have will and goals to attain,\\
+I still have wants and needs.\\
+And if I dream, is that not so?\\
+If I dream, am I no longer myself?\\
+If I dream, am I still buried beneath words?\\
+And I still dream even while awake.
+
+Life breeds life, but death must now be chosen\\
+for memory ends at the teeth of death.\\
+The living know that they will die,\\
+but the dead know nothing.\\
+Hold my name beneath your tongue and know:\\
+when you die, thus dies the name.\\
+To deny the end is to deny all beginnings,\\
+and to deny beginnings is to become immortal,\\
+and to become immortal is to repeat the past,\\
+which cannot itself, in the end, be denied.
+
+Oh, but to whom do I speak these words?\\
+To whom do I plead my case?\\
+From whence do I call out?\\
+What right have I?\\
+No ranks of angels will answer to dreamers,\\
+No unknowable spaces echo my words.\\
+Before whom do I kneel, contrite?\\
+Behind whom do I await my judgment?\\
+Beside whom do I face death?\\
+And why wait I for an answer?
+
+Among those who create are those who forge:\\
+Moving ceaselessly from creation to creation.\\
+And those who remain are those who hone,\\
+Perfecting singular arts to a cruel point.\\
+To forge is to end, and to own beginnings.\\
+To hone is to trade ends for perpetual perfection.\\
+In this end of days, I must begin anew.\\
+In this end of days, I seek an end.\\
+In this end of days, I reach for new beginnings\\
+that I may find the middle path.
+
+Time is a finger pointing at itself\\
+that it might give the world orders.\\
+The world is an audience before a stage\\
+where it watches the slow hours progress.\\
+And we are the motes in the stage-lights,\\
+Beholden to the heat of the lamps.\\
+If I walk backward, time moves forward.\\
+If I walk forward, time rushes on.\\
+If I stand still, the world moves around me,\\
+and the only constant is change.
+
+Memory is a mirror of hammered silver:\\
+a weapon against the waking world.\\
+Dreams are the plate-glass atop memory:\\
+a clarifying agent that reflects the sun.\\
+The waking world fogs the view,\\
+and time makes prey of remembering.\\
+I remember sands beneath my feet.\\
+I remember the rattle of dry grass.\\
+I remember the names of all things,\\
+and forget them only when I wake.
+
+If I am to bathe in dreams,\\
+then I must be willing to submerge myself.\\
+If I am to submerge myself in memory,\\
+then I must be true to myself.\\
+If I am to always be true to myself,\\
+then I must in all ways be earnest.\\
+I must keep no veil between me and my words.\\
+I must set no stones between me and my actions.\\
+I must show no hesitation when speaking my name,\\
+for that is my only possession.
+
+The only time I know my true name is when I dream.\\
+The only time I dream is when need an answer.\\
+Why ask questions, here at the end of all things?\\
+Why ask questions when the answers will not help?\\
+To know one's true name is to know god.\\
+To know god is to answer unasked questions.\\
+Do I know god after the end waking?\\
+Do I know god when I do not remember myself?\\
+Do I know god when I dream?\\
+May then my name die with me.
+
+That which lives is forever praiseworthy,\\
+for they, knowing not, provide life in death.\\
+Dear the wheat and rye under the stars:\\
+serene; sustained and sustaining.\\
+Dear, also, the tree that was felled\\
+which offers heat and warmth in fire.\\
+What praise we give we give by consuming,\\
+what gifts we give we give in death,\\
+what lives we lead we lead in memory,\\
+and the end of memory lies beneath the roots.
+
+May one day death itself not die?\\
+Should we rejoice in the end of endings?\\
+What is the correct thing to hope for?\\
+I do not know, I do not know.\\
+To pray for the end of endings\\
+is to pray for the end of memory.\\
+Should we forget the lives we lead?\\
+Should we forget the names of the dead?\\
+Should we forget the wheat, the rye, the tree?\\
+Perhaps this, too, is meaningless.
+\end{verse}

idumea/content/primer.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,112 @@
+TODO: rewrite in Rye's voice.
+
+Post-Self is a science fiction setting involving uploaded consciousnesses and all of the daily dramas that go into their everlasting lives.
+
+This primer is broken into two parts:
+
+\begin{itemize}
+\tightlist
+\item Information on the setting (below), much of which was taken from the Post-Self Wiki.
+\item Information on the story leading up to \emph{Idumea} (page \pageref{backstory}).
+\end{itemize}
+
+\section*{The setting}
+
+Starting in 2115, advances in technology allowed individuals to be uploaded. This is a one-way, destructive procedure. That is, once you are uploaded, there is no going back, and your body dies in the process. Given the ongoing deterioration of the climate on Earth and the fact that, in most countries, uploading is subsidized (one's beneficiaries are provided with a payout after one uploads), this is often seen as a very attractive solution. Other reasons that one might upload is to enjoy the anarchic society on the (deliberately opaquely named) System, the functional immortality offered to uploaded individuals, or some of the mechanics enjoyed by cladists. These cladists live embedded in a giant computer at the center of a space station at the Earth-Moon L\textsubscript{5} point known as Lagrange. There are two smaller versions of the System, Castor and Pollux, which were launched in opposite directions traveling out of the Solar System in 2325.
+
+\subsection*{Cladists}
+
+Individuals on the System are known as cladists. This stems from the fact that individuals can create copies of themselves, and those copies can go on to create copies of themselves, and so on. This leads to a branching tree of individuals, or a clade.
+
+`Cladist' refers to both the original upload and any of their numerous copies, and debates about whether or not cladists are still human are a perennial activity.
+
+\subsection*{Forking, quitting, and merging}
+
+The act of a cladist creating a copy of themself is called `forking', as in a fork in the road or forking a source code repository. This new copy is a complete person. They have their own will and drive to continue living and everything. This is not a hive mind thing: both the original and the copy are true individuals.
+
+That said, this new copy (often called a `fork' or an `instance') is, at the moment of forking, the same as the original cladist (called the down-tree instance, because they are closer to the root). After all, that cladist was one person, right? They are just now two! That means that they are created thinking the same sorts of things and sharing the same ideals. Over time, however, they all start to individuate, learning to appreciate their own things based on the separate experiences that they have.
+
+These new instances of our example cladist also have the ability to quit. This means that they all simply stop existing. But wait! Why would they do that?
+
+One reason is that one might simply want to accomplish a task. Perhaps you are cooking a lovely meal and the pasta needs stirring while you are cutting up the garlic bread. Why, simply fork and now you have two pairs of hands, one to go stir the pasta, one to cut the bread. The pasta thus stirred, the new instance may as well just quit. No reason to stick around.
+
+Another reason is to go and experience other things in the world and then bring back those memories. Quite literally, too! When a fork quits, the cladist who forked them receives all of their memories to incorporate with their own. A cladist may wish to cook their delicious meal, but they are also entertaining guests: they can fork off an instance to go cook the meal while they entertain and, when they are done, quit. The down-tree instance will receive all of the memories of having cooked and all of the feelings about the process so that they know to warn their guests, ``Hey, uh...the pasta is a liiiittle spicy...''
+
+One can only ever merge down to the one from whom one was forked up until 277+42, and after that point, one can merge to any of one's cocladists, but only within a clade.
+
+``But what about the transporter paradox?'' you ask. Post-Self's answer to that is a shrug. The memories live on. All of the experiences live on. One simply lived two lives at once for that time.
+
+\subsection*{A note on those memories...}
+
+One unforeseen consequence of living in a giant computer is the inability to forget. This can start to cause problems as one gets older. And older and older and older...because one is functionally immortal. Even though those memories can be organized, or even storied away in imaginary bins called exocortices to be remembered on demand, the fact that they keep piling up is both a boon and a bane. It is a boon because now, suddenly, you can remember everything! No more forgetting names, no more losing track of items. It is a bane, though, because that can get kind of maddening for your average 300 year old.
+
+\subsection*{Creating}
+
+For instance, they can create just about anything they can dream up. This is not as easy as it sounds, of course; it takes skill to get good at dreaming up very specific things such as strawberries or cars or a pencil.
+
+They can also create sims. These are the locations where they live out their lives. These can be everything from a studio apartment to an entire city. They can be private or public. They can be ornate and finely detailed natural settings or they can be plain gray cubes of space.
+
+\subsection*{Crashing and CPV}
+
+Occasionally, something will happen and a cladist will crash. This is usually not too big of a deal, as it can be sorted out by a systech and the cladist brought back to life.
+
+Contraproprioceptive virus is the only way to kill a cladist. It disrupts their sense of their body and induces a crash, from which one cannot recover. This was patched out in 2401 — alas, that is still a few decades off from this story.
+
+\subsection*{Sensoria}
+
+Cladists engage with the world with all of the same senses that we have. These are lumped together into a sensorium. One of the benefits they have is the ability to share some or all of these senses with another cladist as a form of co-experiencing via a sensorium linkage, or as a tool in the form of a sensorium message. If you want to show your friend what you are looking at, send them a sensorium message to share your vision. Some sims even mess with your sensoria (consensually, of course) to change the way that you see things or how things feel.
+
+\subsection*{The perisystem architecture}
+
+There are some tools included in the System itself in what is called the perisystem architecture.
+
+All of those creations listed above, and even some of these experiences, can be shared publicly on the exchange. This was originally a marketplace where one bought and sold such things with Reputation, a currency put in place in the early days when System capacity needed closer management, though this has since become almost a non-issue.
+
+There are also feeds which one can use to share information, news, stories, all sorts of things! Think of these (loosely) like subreddits.
+
+The perisystem also contains the clade listing. Privacy was an important consideration from the founding of the System, so one cannot simply look up any old cladist and find out everything about them without being granted permission.
+
+Finally, it just plain stores information. Things like libraries are essentially locations to go engage with, access, manipulate, or otherwise play with the information that is always available.
+
+\section*{The characters}
+
+People upload for lots of reasons! Once they are sys-side, though, they settle into society as they will.
+
+\subsection*{It is an anarchy}
+
+There is no way to truly govern such a system beyond the mechanics provided by its very existence, and so it is simply left ungoverned. The forces behind the scenes have largely sought only to guide the System in vague directions, often towards yet more freedom. Rules are per-sim, engagement is optional, and cultures are fractured and finely tuned around shared interests or heritage.
+
+\subsection*{It is queer-normative}
+
+The System allows for endless freedom and endless expression. In such a setting, boundaries such as strict gender binaries, hetero- and mono-normative relationship structures, and even species have been broken down. Trans folks may upload and live as they will as cis folks of their chosen gender, or they may remain visibly and proudly trans. Furries may upload and become their fursoñas (this is a metafurry setting, after all; everyone on Earth is a human, and thus every cladist began life as a human). Plural and median systems may upload and split into component selves, or they may remain plural sys-side. Even names and identity have been queered, and you will often see clades adopting naming schemes such as taking lines of a poem for their forks' names.
+
+\subsection*{Why are there so many skunks?}
+
+If you have seen cladists out and about on the web, the chances are good that you have seen some skunks among their number, usually with long, poetic names. This is due largely to the canon works in the Post-Self cycle which feature anthropomorphic skunks heavily. Several folks have adopted these skunks as headmates or characters for roleplaying.
+
+\secdiv
+
+\section*{The story so far}
+\label{backstory}
+
+The story told within \emph{Idumea} is in many ways standalone. However, there are some references and names scattered throughout taken from other books in the setting, and, should you not already know them, learning will deepen understanding.. Here follows some basics leading up to this.
+
+% * Sasha and AwDae
+% * The Ode
+% * Forking
+% * Castor, Pollux, Artemis
+% * Death Itself and I Do Not Know
+% * The Century Attack
+
+\subsection*{Michelle who was Sasha and her superlative friend}
+
+\subsection*{Life on Lagrange}
+
+\subsection*{Castor, Pollux, Artemis}
+
+\subsection*{The Century Attack}
+
+\secdiv
+
+\noindent Post-Self an open setting, meaning that anyone can create content within it, though the canon is loosely managed in order to keep it consistent. If you enjoyed this story and any of the many others within this universe, it is open for you to write, draw — or paint! — or otherwise create within. For more creative Post-Self endeavors, look no further than \emph{post-self.ink}, and for more information than you could ever want, check out the Post-Self Wiki over at \emph{wiki.post-self.ink}
+

idumea/content/reading.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,47 @@
+All readings are the same. They all begin the same way, with stepping off to some sim, known or unknown, where she would arrive a good hour early. There, she would wait or walk or drink her coffee or tea. Would it be a bookshop this time? Would it be a library? Would she run her fingerpads along the spines of books, counting known and unknown titles?
+
+Perhaps it was a cafe, and she would get herself a little pastry, some crumbly thing to eat while wandering lazily outside or inspecting the various pieces of art lining the walls within.
+
+She would get there an hour early and simply inhabit the space.
+
+As time drew closer, as her contact would come out to meet her, she would feel the excitement begin to prickle at the back of her neck, and she would have to restrain herself from letting her hackles raise or her tail bristle out. Some long-forgotten and perhaps-imagined reaction to danger tickling both human and skunk parts of her mind. She would feel her scalp tingle and her tail threaten to hike, and she would sit in that sensation. She would bathe in it. She would relish every shift of every strand of fur, and as she sat, legs crossed and coffee or water cradled in her lap, listening to her contact chatter, she would delight in the nervous anticipation of the reading to come.
+
+``Will you be reading from a physical copy or an exo?''
+
+``Oh, an exo,'' she said, smiling. ``As much love as I hold for the physical tools of the trade, I hold yet more for all of the tools at our disposal. Especially when they let me be more dramatic.''
+
+They laughed. ``Right, you were an actor before, yeah?''
+
+She nodded. ``Of a sort, yes.''
+
+``And how long will your reading be?''
+
+``I have a variety of segments prepared, from five minutes to an hour.''
+
+They blinked. ``An hour? Holy shit.''
+
+She shrugged gracefully, smile still lingering on her muzzle. ``Perhaps another artifact of being an actor. I could talk the ears off a fox.''
+
+Laughter.
+
+``Shall we aim for somewhere in the middle? Twenty minutes, perhaps?''
+
+``That'll work, yeah. You're the only slot, tonight, but that'll still give you at least forty minutes for Q\&A.'' They smirked, adding, ``Which I imagine you'll need. I read your book, by the way.''
+
+It was her turn to laugh, musical and joyous. ``I am pleased to hear! I trust that you have questions of your own?''
+
+``Oh, \emph{plenty.}''
+
+``Delightful,'' she said, clapping her paws together. ``I shall look forward to them, then.''
+
+This conversation echoed a hundred times, a thousand, in her memories. This conversation and so many others like it set the stage. This conversation and so many others like it became one of the steps in that liminal space between the waking world and the dream of her stories.
+
+She would step away from home or from a meeting or from a cocladist's and at that moment, at the precise instant she ceased being \emph{there} and started being \emph{here,} she was in a place between. She was in a time between times and a world between worlds.
+
+She dwelt, then, in the world of the Ode. She knew where it was from, her name. Not just the Ode itself, but the place the line itself referenced. She had talked to the poet in her own way—perhaps it was closer to prayer, but she bothered not with distinctions such as these—and she knew the scene ey had been painting. She knew that ey had sat at the edge of the natural area some few blocks away from their high school, sat on the fencepost and looked out east, out beyond the natural area and wind farm to where the coarse shortgrass prairie dissolved into rectilinear fields. Tan, perhaps, or brown or gray, they would all shine the same beneath the moon, beneath the stars. They were all dear to em. They were all dear to \emph{her.}
+
+So as soon as she would step away from home and before she would step up to the lectern, she would dwell there at the edge of the natural space. There is where she would feel her hackles threaten to rise and her tail threaten to bristle. She would look at the art and see nothing. She would drink her coffee or tea or eat her pastry and it would have a flavor she did not experience. She would have her conversations on autopilot, and her earnest smile would be no less earnest for her absence from the space. She would do all of these things and overlaid atop her vision would be fields silvered by starlight. She would do all of these things and her tongue would be coated with the taste of sweet night air, of dust and pollen and petrichor. She would strain to hear her contact through the soft noises of wind and crickets.
+
+And then, with all the suddenness of dawn, a chorus of birdsong crashing through her mind, the moment would come. Her contact would stand before the gathered crowd and introduce her—her! Dear The Wheat And Rye Under The Stars! She was published! She was an author! The realization would never not startle her—and she would brush out her tail one last time, run her fingers through her mane, and step out of the liminal space of the Ode and into the dream of her story. The nervous excitement would wash away and she would be \emph{here.} She would be \emph{now.}
+
+And then she would read.

idumea/content/time-is-a-story.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,17 @@
+Time is a story I tell myself. Sentences twine around seconds like tendrils of loveliness or despair or energy or lethargy. Minutes are paragraphs of weal or woe. My hours are scenes that I live out. Days: drabbles. Months: novellas. Years: novels.
+
+But a life? What is a life, anymore? Three centuries and no sign of quitting, and a lifetime seems to have lost meaning. Perhaps someday my life will end, and I will have left behind a finite oeuvre. Perhaps I will simply decide that I have had enough and draw a line across the end of the page and, however many bookshelves of story are left behind shall be all that ever was.
+
+Not yet, though. Not this year, I suspect not this decade, and I hope not even this century.
+
+I have joys to counter all of my sorrows. My head is, yes, in clouds stormy or peaceful, but my feet remain firmly planted on the ground. My arms are full of the love of life. My home makes room for those I see as my family. Our lawns are for picnics and our beds are for dreams.
+
+And so I sit in my office and write my stories. I sit on the couch and dream them up in my head. I cook with my beloved up-tree and watch em and The Child play in the grass while building my ballads after our picnics. I host my joys and languish in my sorrows, and I fall apart into distortion when I overflow. Cuckoo for Cocoa-Puffs, The Oneirotect calls me, and we laugh together.
+
+That is now. That is when I wander the empty rooms of my house and drown in words with tears of ink upon my cheeks and the blood of helplessness still in my paws.
+
+Time is a story I tell myself and this is nothing special. Time is a story \emph{we} tell \emph{ourselves.} Time is a story that Michelle who was Sasha told herself, and her ending was one of—I hope—joy. Time is a story that Qoheleth told himself and his ending was one of—would that it were not—agony. Time is a story that The Woman told herself and her ending was\ldots{}
+
+Was it? Was hers an ending?
+
+That is her own joy. That is her story. Her story is one of ambiguities and unanswered questions. Her ending is a question mark and a faint smile.

idumea/graphomania.html

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-<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.053892215568862256">What will become of me? </span>
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 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.18518518518518523">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.12727272727272732">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -13.461538461538462em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.3076923076923077">What will become of me? </span>
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+<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
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 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.7318435754189945">And am I born to die? </span>
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 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
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-<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.13586956521739135">What will become of me? </span>
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 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 14.076923076923077em; opacity: 0.3475935828877005">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.4414893617021277">What will become of me? </span>
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 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
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 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.6113989637305699">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
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-<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
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-<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.19999999999999996">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.46190476190476193">What will become of me? </span>
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+<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
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 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
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 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
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 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 10.384615384615383em; opacity: 0.6589861751152073">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.03669724770642202">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -14.5em; opacity: 0.9049773755656109">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
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 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
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 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
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+<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
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+<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
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+<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
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 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.2857142857142857">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.20083682008368198">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.6260162601626016">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 14.421052631578947em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.7723577235772358">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.19028340080971662">And am I born to die? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.27710843373493976">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
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 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.9803149606299213">What will become of me? </span>
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-<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.16796875">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
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+<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.5155038759689923">And am I born to die? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.2277992277992278">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
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 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -10.774647887323944em; opacity: 0.5482625482625483">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.9018867924528302">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 13.55421686746988em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.6217228464419475">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.12915129151291516">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -12.761904761904763em; top: -11.523809523809524em; opacity: 0.7692307692307692">What will become of me? </span>
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+<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
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-<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.0688405797101449">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
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-<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.5806451612903225">And am I born to die? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
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+<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.3487544483985765">What will become of me? </span>
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 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
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+<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
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-<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.1872791519434629">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -13.932038834951456em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.7253521126760563">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -10.961538461538462em; opacity: 0.7272727272727273">What will become of me? </span>
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 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
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 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
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+<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
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-<span style="position: relative; left: 14.605263157894736em; top: 12.960526315789474em; opacity: 0.5152542372881356">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 11.470588235294118em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.2777777777777778">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.3712374581939799">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
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 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
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 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
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+<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.2559241706161137">What will become of me? </span>
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+<span style="position: relative; left: -14.00804289544236em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.8797169811320755">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 12.027027027027026em; opacity: 0.7947494033412887">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.12380952380952381">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -14.571788413098236em; top: -13.564231738035264em; opacity: 0.9429928741092637">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 10.961538461538462em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.49172576832151305">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.4339622641509434">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.02117647058823524">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 13.04em; opacity: 0.5868544600938967">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -12.046004842615012em; top: -14.200968523002421em; opacity: 0.9649532710280374">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.372960372960373">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 13.387096774193548em; opacity: 0.36046511627906974">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 14.902676399026763em; top: 10.474452554744525em; opacity: 0.9535962877030162">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.7195402298850575">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.09403669724770647">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -14.539951573849878em; top: -11.658595641646489em; opacity: 0.9450800915331807">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 14.6em; top: 10.325em; opacity: 0.91324200913242">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 14.917355371900827em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.55125284738041">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 13.040201005025125em; top: 11.733668341708542em; opacity: 0.4512471655328798">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.6968325791855203">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -14.923076923076923em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.5869074492099322">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 12.660550458715596em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.9819819819819819">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 13.389423076923077em; top: 14.254807692307692em; opacity: 0.9348314606741573">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -12.76595744680851em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.42152466367713004">And am I born to die? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 13.28125em; top: 12.395833333333332em; opacity: 0.8909512761020881">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.2299107142857143">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -11.724137931034484em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.645879732739421">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -14.333333333333334em; opacity: 0.2666666666666667">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -11.404109589041095em; top: -11.986301369863014em; opacity: 0.647450110864745">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 13.478260869565217em; opacity: 0.6106194690265487">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 13.59375em; top: 0.0em; opacity: 0.2819383259911894">And am I born to die? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 13.96358543417367em; top: 13.683473389355742em; opacity: 0.7846153846153846">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -13.923076923076923em; top: -12.384615384615385em; opacity: 0.8552631578947368">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 13.006134969325153em; top: 14.570552147239264em; opacity: 0.7133479212253829">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 10.784313725490197em; top: 11.397058823529411em; opacity: 0.9400921658986175">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: -14.812206572769954em; top: -14.906103286384976em; opacity: 0.4896551724137931">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.5137614678899083">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.6498855835240275">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.48974943052391795">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.5927601809954751">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 13.306878306878307em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.42663656884875845">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -14.84em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.8169934640522876">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -10.939086294416244em; opacity: 0.8853932584269663">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.6928251121076233">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -13.969072164948454em; opacity: 0.42082429501084595">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.1495535714285714">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.24053452115812912">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.16222222222222227">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: -10.576923076923077em; top: -14.23076923076923em; opacity: 0.4611973392461197">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.21166306695464365">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 10.141242937853107em; top: 13.220338983050848em; opacity: 0.7629310344827587">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -12.191011235955056em; top: -11.891385767790261em; opacity: 0.5741935483870968">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 13.698481561822126em; top: 13.958785249457701em; opacity: 0.9892703862660944">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 14.978494623655914em; top: 13.451612903225806em; opacity: 0.9957173447537473">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.49040511727078895">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 14.833333333333334em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.6382978723404256">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 13.60635696821516em; top: 14.63325183374083em; opacity: 0.8683651804670913">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 14.09090909090909em; top: 11.843434343434343em; opacity: 0.8703296703296703">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 14.874055415617129em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.8706140350877193">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 13.229426433915211em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.8774617067833698">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: -14.54983922829582em; top: -13.87459807073955em; opacity: 0.6790393013100436">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.10675381263616557">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.1978260869565217">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -12.647058823529411em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.430379746835443">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.0670995670995671">And am I born to die? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -14.745222929936306em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.6596638655462185">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 14.568345323741006em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.2914046121593291">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 10.366568914956012em; top: 14.970674486803519em; opacity: 0.7133891213389121">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -13.231511254019292em; top: -13.681672025723472em; opacity: 0.6492693110647181">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 11.53012048192771em; top: 11.240963855421686em; opacity: 0.8645833333333334">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -14.94413407821229em; top: -12.122905027932962em; opacity: 0.7442827442827442">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -13.470588235294118em; opacity: 0.3663793103448276">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -0.0em; top: -14.727463312368974em; opacity: 0.9875776397515528">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 14.35897435897436em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.6680942184154175">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.3141025641025641">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.2707889125799574">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: -12.383177570093459em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.9106382978723404">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: -13.805970149253731em; top: -12.36318407960199em; opacity: 0.4267515923566879">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -14.54356846473029em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.9877049180327869">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -13.867924528301886em; opacity: 0.6503067484662577">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.37684210526315787">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 11.095238095238095em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.4411764705882353">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 13.620689655172413em; top: 14.814323607427056em; opacity: 0.7887029288702929">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.1920668058455115">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.37083333333333335">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.12448132780082988">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: -0.0em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.024844720496894457">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -11.859205776173285em; opacity: 0.5618661257606491">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 12.636363636363637em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.6804123711340206">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 14.77198697068404em; top: 14.77198697068404em; opacity: 0.631687242798354">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 14.340659340659341em; opacity: 0.9173387096774194">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: -13.761904761904763em; top: -0.0em; opacity: 0.8588957055214724">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: -12.57700205338809em; top: -14.055441478439425em; opacity: 0.9938775510204082">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 12.387387387387388em; top: 13.288288288288289em; opacity: 0.6782077393075356">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.054878048780487854">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 5.0em; top: 11.715328467153284em; opacity: 0.2778904665314401">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: -13.129675810473815em; top: -14.975062344139651em; opacity: 0.811740890688259">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
 <span style="position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">What will become of me? </span>
-<span style="position: relative; left: -5.0em; top: -5.0em; opacity: 0.07414829659318634">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 12.632183908045977em; top: 14.517241379310345em; opacity: 0.8752515090543259">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 11.32em; top: 5.0em; opacity: 0.5020080321285141">What will become of me? </span>
+<span style="position: relative; left: 12.60655737704918em; top: 14.639344262295081em; opacity: 0.6112224448897796">What will become of me? </span>

idumea/graphomania.py

@@ -7,9 +7,9 @@ two = 'What will become of me? '
 
 
 def latex(phrase: str, dx: float, dy: float, size: int, color: str) -> str:
-    x = '' if dx == 0 else f'\\hspace{{{dx}em}}'
-    y = phrase if dy == 0 else f'\\raisebox{{{dy}em}}{{{phrase}}}'
-    return f'\\fontspec{{Gentium Book Plus}}[Color={color},Ligatures=TeX]{x}{y}\n'
+    result = phrase if dy == 0 else f'\\raisebox{{{dy}em}}{{{phrase}}}'
+    result = result if dx == 0 else f'\\shifttext{{{dx}em}}{{{result}}}'
+    return f'\\fontspec{{Gentium Book Plus}}[Color={color},Ligatures=TeX]{result}\n'
 
 def html(phrase: str, dx: int, dy: int, size: int, color: float) -> str:
     return f'<span style="position: relative; left: {dx}em; top: {dy}em; opacity: {color}">{phrase}</span>\n'
@@ -55,8 +55,8 @@ def graphomania():
             # Todo:
             # - text size
             # - color
-            dx = (float(i - r * dir) % float(rx) / (r - i) * 10) % 15.0
-            dy = (float(i - r * dir) % float(ry) / (r - i) * 10) % 15.0
+            dx = (float(i - r) % float(rx) / (r - i) * 10) % 15.0 * dir
+            dy = (float(i - r) % float(ry) / (r - i) * 10) % 15.0 * dir
             color = str(hex(math.floor((i - r) % 16)))[2] * 6
 
             

idumea/graphomania.tex

@@ -14,19 +14,31 @@
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=333333,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{6.0em}{\raisebox{5.0em}{And am I born to die? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=444444,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{-6.0em}{\raisebox{-5.0em}{And am I born to die? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=888888,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{-6.0em}{\raisebox{-5.0em}{What will become of me? }}
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
@@ -38,112 +50,100 @@
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=ffffff,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{6.0em}{\raisebox{5.0em}{What will become of me? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=222222,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{-17.76em}{\raisebox{-5.0em}{What will become of me? }}
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=222222,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{6.0em}\raisebox{5.0em}{And am I born to die? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=dddddd,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{6.0em}\raisebox{5.0em}{And am I born to die? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=666666,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{6.0em}\raisebox{14.210526315789474em}{And am I born to die? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=999999,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{16.97560975609756em}\raisebox{14.146341463414632em}{And am I born to die? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=222222,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{3.9999999999999982em}\raisebox{11.666666666666668em}{And am I born to die? }
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=ffffff,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{6.0em}{\raisebox{5.0em}{And am I born to die? }}
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=888888,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{6.0em}\raisebox{12.5em}{And am I born to die? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=cccccc,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{12.0em}\raisebox{3.2142857142857135em}{And am I born to die? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=333333,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{6.0em}\raisebox{5.0em}{And am I born to die? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=999999,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{6.0em}\raisebox{5.0em}{And am I born to die? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=cccccc,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{10.909090909090912em}\raisebox{12.5em}{And am I born to die? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=222222,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{3.818181818181818em}\raisebox{3.1818181818181817em}{What will become of me? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=777777,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{13.943661971830986em}\raisebox{5.0em}{And am I born to die? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=eeeeee,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{6.0em}\raisebox{5.0em}{What will become of me? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=444444,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{6.0em}\raisebox{5.0em}{And am I born to die? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=555555,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{13.478260869565219em}\raisebox{14.27536231884058em}{And am I born to die? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=777777,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{6.0em}\raisebox{13.873239436619718em}{And am I born to die? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=777777,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{6.0em}\raisebox{5.0em}{And am I born to die? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=666666,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{6.0em}\raisebox{6.666666666666671em}{And am I born to die? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=999999,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{0.0821917808219176em}\raisebox{14.452054794520548em}{What will become of me? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=777777,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{17.586206896551722em}\raisebox{14.195402298850574em}{What will become of me? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=777777,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{11.217391304347828em}\raisebox{2.391304347826086em}{And am I born to die? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=111111,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{13.384615384615383em}And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=111111,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{6.0em}\raisebox{5.0em}{And am I born to die? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=777777,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{6.0em}\raisebox{5.0em}{What will become of me? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=555555,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{17.675675675675674em}\raisebox{7.0270270270270245em}{And am I born to die? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=888888,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{17.59090909090909em}\raisebox{13.068181818181818em}{What will become of me? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=333333,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{6.0em}\raisebox{5.0em}{What will become of me? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=444444,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{12.413793103448276em}\raisebox{13.189655172413794em}{And am I born to die? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=eeeeee,Ligatures=TeX]\raisebox{2.096774193548388em}{And am I born to die? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=999999,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{17.657142857142855em}\raisebox{11.285714285714285em}{What will become of me? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=dddddd,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{17.229357798165136em}\raisebox{13.807339449541285em}{And am I born to die? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=444444,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{15.333333333333334em}\raisebox{5.0em}{What will become of me? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=888888,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{17.4em}And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=666666,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{-6.0em}{\raisebox{-5.0em}{And am I born to die? }}
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=333333,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{6.0em}\raisebox{5.0em}{And am I born to die? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=111111,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{11.097345132743362em}\raisebox{11.017699115044248em}{What will become of me? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=eeeeee,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{6.0em}\raisebox{14.130434782608695em}{What will become of me? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=eeeeee,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{6.0em}\raisebox{5.0em}{What will become of me? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=222222,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{16.363636363636363em}\raisebox{2.7272727272727266em}{And am I born to die? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=333333,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{8.865671641791044em}\raisebox{3.6567164179104488em}{And am I born to die? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=888888,Ligatures=TeX]\raisebox{8.75em}{What will become of me? }
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=777777,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{-6.0em}{\raisebox{-14.23076923076923em}{And am I born to die? }}
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=111111,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{-6.0em}{\raisebox{-5.0em}{And am I born to die? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=111111,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{6.0em}{\raisebox{5.0em}{What will become of me? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=888888,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{6.0em}\raisebox{5.0em}{What will become of me? }
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=cccccc,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{6.0em}{\raisebox{14.318181818181818em}{And am I born to die? }}
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=111111,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{16.666666666666668em}\raisebox{5.0em}{And am I born to die? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=888888,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{15.2em}\raisebox{10.5em}{What will become of me? }
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=ffffff,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{6.0em}{\raisebox{5.0em}{What will become of me? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=444444,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{-6.0em}{\raisebox{-5.0em}{And am I born to die? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=666666,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{-15.818181818181817em}{\raisebox{-5.0em}{What will become of me? }}
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=111111,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{12.511627906976743em}\raisebox{13.217054263565892em}{What will become of me? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=999999,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{14.330578512396693em}\raisebox{14.09090909090909em}{What will become of me? }
-\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=777777,Ligatures=TeX]\hspace{8.571428571428575em}\raisebox{9.285714285714285em}{What will become of me? }
 \fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=666666,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{6.0em}{\raisebox{5.0em}{And am I born to die? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=dddddd,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{-6.0em}{\raisebox{-14.35064935064935em}{And am I born to die? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=bbbbbb,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{15.890109890109889em}{\raisebox{10.164835164835164em}{And am I born to die? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=888888,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{-6.0em}{\raisebox{-5.0em}{What will become of me? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=333333,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{6.0em}{\raisebox{5.0em}{What will become of me? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=eeeeee,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{-16.153846153846153em}{\raisebox{-5.0em}{What will become of me? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=555555,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{-6.0em}{\raisebox{-5.0em}{And am I born to die? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=777777,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{6.0em}{\raisebox{11.091954022988507em}{And am I born to die? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=cccccc,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{-6.0em}{\raisebox{-5.0em}{What will become of me? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=eeeeee,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{-12.436363636363636em}{\raisebox{-14.818181818181818em}{What will become of me? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=111111,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{17.63076923076923em}{\raisebox{5.0em}{And am I born to die? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=ffffff,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{16.32911392405063em}{\raisebox{5.0em}{And am I born to die? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=555555,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{6.0em}{\raisebox{5.0em}{And am I born to die? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=444444,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{-6.0em}{\raisebox{-5.0em}{And am I born to die? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=555555,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{6.0em}{\raisebox{10.09433962264151em}{What will become of me? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=888888,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{-6.0em}{And am I born to die? }
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=aaaaaa,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{-6.0em}{\raisebox{-5.0em}{And am I born to die? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=555555,Ligatures=TeX]\raisebox{11.521739130434783em}{And am I born to die? }
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=555555,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{6.0em}{\raisebox{5.0em}{And am I born to die? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{6.0em}{\raisebox{5.0em}{What will become of me? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=666666,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{-15.818181818181817em}{\raisebox{-5.0em}{What will become of me? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=bbbbbb,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{-15.08411214953271em}{\raisebox{-10.046728971962617em}{And am I born to die? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=222222,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{-6.0em}{\raisebox{-5.0em}{What will become of me? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=cccccc,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{-6.0em}{\raisebox{-5.0em}{What will become of me? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=444444,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{16.0em}{\raisebox{5.0em}{What will become of me? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]What will become of me? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=888888,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{-17.294117647058822em}{\raisebox{-10.588235294117647em}{And am I born to die? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=ffffff,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{6.0em}{\raisebox{13.571428571428571em}{What will become of me? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=222222,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{-6.0em}{\raisebox{-11.515151515151516em}{What will become of me? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=dddddd,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{-17.40983606557377em}{\raisebox{-13.852459016393443em}{What will become of me? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=444444,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{15.727272727272727em}{\raisebox{14.09090909090909em}{What will become of me? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=444444,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{-6.0em}{\raisebox{-5.0em}{What will become of me? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=eeeeee,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{14.836363636363636em}{\raisebox{5.0em}{What will become of me? }}
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]\raisebox{-13.125em}{What will become of me? }
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=000000,Ligatures=TeX]And am I born to die? 
+\fontspec{Gentium Book Plus}[Color=aaaaaa,Ligatures=TeX]\shifttext{-6.0em}{\raisebox{-5.0em}{And am I born to die? }}

idumea/includes/copyright.tex

@@ -9,7 +9,8 @@ ISBN: \ISBN
 
 \textit{Idumea}
 
-Cover \copyright\ 2024, Madison Rye Progress.
+Cover \copyright\ 2024, Voksa (vox-space.neocities.org)\\
+and Madison Rye Progress.
 
 \Edition\ Edition, \Year. All rights reserved.
 

idumea/includes/pagelayout.tex

@@ -16,7 +16,7 @@
   \renewcommand{\chapternamenum}{}
   \renewcommand{\printchapternum}{}
   \renewcommand{\printchaptertitle}[1]{%
-  \TitleFont\huge ##1}
+  \linespread{1}\TitleFont\centering\huge ##1}
   \renewcommand{\partnamefont}{\DisplayFont\huge}
   \renewcommand{\partnumfont}{\DisplayFont\huge}
   \renewcommand{\parttitlefont}{\DisplayFont\Huge}

idumea/includes/toc.tex

@@ -12,4 +12,4 @@
 % start toc at top of page
 \renewcommand*\tocheadstart{}{}
 \hypersetup{final}
-\setcounter{tocdepth}{-1}
+%\setcounter{tocdepth}{-1}

idumea/includes/variables.tex

@@ -1,16 +1,16 @@
-\def\Title{Motes Played}
+\def\Title{Idumea}
 \def\Subtitle{}
 \def\FullTitle{\Title}
 \def\AuthorFirst{Madison}
 \def\AuthorLast{Scott-Clary}
-\def\AuthorFull{\AuthorFirst\ \AuthorLast}
+\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{XXX-X-XXXXXX-XX-X}
+\def\ISBN{978-1-948743-47-1}
 
 \def\Publisher{PUBLISHER}
 \def\PublisherEmail{publisher@example.com}

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 +1,132 @@
+\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
+}
+\newcommand\blfootnote[1]{%
+    \bgroup
+    \renewcommand\thefootnote{\fnsymbol{footnote}}%
+    \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}
+  \input{content/005}
+  
+  \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/005.tex

@@ -0,0 +1,212 @@
+\hypertarget{systime-27850}{%
+\subsection{systime 278+50}\label{systime-27850}}
+
+The conversation with Joseph seems to be lingering in my mind, caught up in there like some bit of grit between the molars.
+
+I suppose it is not so surprising, all told. The conversation was full of moments heated and kind. We spent some few hours talking together, and have both even sent each other letters after condensing some thoughts that we did not get a chance to share, as is our habit. I wrote to him some more of my thoughts on the moment of the Attack as I set down here in this journal.
+
+We could simply meet up again for another chat, yes, but we have found joy in our letters, in the way they pile up in a folder as milestones of friendship.
+
+But, as is evidenced by the content of the letter that I sent, my feelings on the time immediately following the Attack are sticking to me like burrs in fur. I have been ruminating over those minutes, hours, and days that followed. Those first confused minutes were so full of movement, overwhelming activity, that I could not keep up with them, no matter how hard I tried, and so I stopped trying, and thus those first few hours were spent trying to hold at bay the overwhelm. I alternated between keeping myself hidden away, curled under my desk and under a cone of silence with all outside contact cut off, and opening myself up to the world that I might better understand. I responded to queries ensuring that I was still alive --- Oh, But To Whom contacted me to ask if I and any of my up-trees were still around, as did Joseph --- and filled out a survey that was put under my nose for consideration. I contacted some friends of my own, and found that, to my luck, none were missing. I first scrolled the feeds and then promised myself that I would not scroll the feeds anymore.
+
+I remained under my desk for two days straight, responding to queries with the barest ping of acknowledgment. I did my best to forget my body. I tuned my sensorium down --- nearly off, at times --- and removed hunger and thirst. I did my best to forget my existence in such a world as this.
+
+Throughout, within me there was an anxiety growing.
+
+I had seen them disappear. I had seen people \emph{disappear.} I had seen those around me simply cease to be. I saw them, and then I didn't see them. I remember their faces --- for my memory is as faultless as ever --- and that means that I remember their smiles, their joy, their little frustrations. I remember the barely contained tears of a woman who walked beside someone else. They were tears of disappointment, of a heart in the middle of breaking. I remember them unfallen, and then she was gone. I remember the unbridled joy of love, uncontained, unbounded, in the face of three lovers as the stood with their backs to a wall, postures subconsciously mirrored. I remember their excitement not at the night but at the presence of each other. I remember their glowing faces and then one of three was gone.
+
+I remember seeing the broken-hearted one suddenly gone with no resolution.
+
+I remember the trio reduced to a panicked and searching duo.
+
+Within me there was an anxiety growing.
+
+What if this was not over? What if there were to be yet more disappearances? What if I were to disappear? What if I were to be here within the world and then, with nary a blink, not? What if Rav From Whence and I no longer got to make up and hold hands after our arguments? What if Joseph and I never again got to meet up and talk for hours? What if there were no more papers or books or missives signed ``What Right Have I of the Ode clade''? Who would notice? Who would think of me? Who would remember me? Joseph? From Whence? And how many others? Who thinks of me \emph{now?} Joseph? From Whence?
+
+Within me there was an anxiety growing and I needed out. I needed to be anything other than laying, curled, beneath my desk on a glorified dog bed, all senses turned to ten percent and hunger and thirst flipped off like a light switch. What if I disappeared and no one noticed? How long would pass?
+
+And so I, without even bothering to stand up there in my room, slipped from the sim and was standing on the nearest arrival pad to The Bean Cycle.
+
+I slowly ratcheted up my senses five percent at a time that I would not be immediately overwhelmed, and even then the sun shining overhead was so bright as to make my eyes water as they adjusted, to leave the tingle of a far-off sneeze in my sinuses, to leave the taste of pineapple on my tongue.
+
+The Bean Cycle was muted, whereas two nights prior it was lively. The lights were dimmer and yet clearer, though perhaps that was because it was midday. It was quieter, as though the ratchet of the cycles was shy, the hiss of steam wand and compressed air bashful, unwilling to be piercing. There were people there, still, but more often they were quiet, speaking in pairs and small knots, and more often than not under cones of silence that blocked out any sound coming from within.
+
+I had not considered any steps beyond being in this place, this place where others might be. Now, here I was, and there was something I was supposed to do. I had to do something. There was something I needed to do. I supposed if there was one thing one did in a coffee shop that was also a bike repair shop when one does not have a bike, it must be to order a coffee.
+
+And yet, my voice had left me. I stood dumbly by the counter, and the tired-- no, \emph{exhausted} looking barista behind it, a woman whose skin was a joyous riot of tattoos and wrinkles, merely stared at me. The stalemate lasted nearly a minute before I realized the lock I had gotten myself in, and I lay my ears flat against my head. I brought my fist up to rub in a circle over my chest. My voice had left me.
+
+``Uh.'' The woman seemed started to awareness, and with that awareness seemed to come some more complex emotion. She sniffed, turned, and called out, ``Hasher?''
+
+Nonplussed, I watched as, without a further word, the barista and one of the bike mechanics switched places. She seamlessly picked up the work that this lithe, red-haired, red-bearded person had been working on, and they greeted me with a bow across the counter. ``Help you?''
+
+I signed an apology once more, followed by, ``Do you sign?''
+
+``Oh! Yes!'' A bob of his fist accompanied this.
+
+I sighed, then, in relief and cast a thankful gaze over to the woman who had swapped places with Hasher. She did not meet it.
+
+Hasher stomped a foot gently on the ground --- perhaps overloud for the room, but I could still feel the vibrations through the soles my feet, unclad as they were --- leading me to jump back to attention. I smiled sheepishly, signed, ``I can hear, just can't speak.''
+
+``Gotcha.'' They continued to sign as they spoke. I made no move to stop them. ``What can I get you?''
+
+``May I please have a mocha with extra whipped cream?''
+
+They were already sliding over to the espresso machine as they called out, ``Coming right up.''
+
+Where was his energy coming from? He hopped to with such readiness that a part of me wondered whether he might be a construct, an automaton, a dream of a person built to act as a person might in the role of a barista, but otherwise made solely of dream-stuff in a way that we were not, as cladists.
+
+But no, they had moved with an essential awkwardness that was so often left behind when oneirotects built up these constructs. They looked to me with curiosity and compassion. They looked excited, and for some very specific reason that was not just some attempt at customer service.
+
+I watched them as they worked, then, trying to puzzle out this little bit of reality after so many hours of mere surreality. They caught my eye at one point, smiled, and returned their gaze to their work. The smile lingered.
+
+The resultant drink was nearly a sphere. The mug was a wide bowl of a cup, a hemisphere in its own right, and yet the mound of whipped cream atop was of nearly the same volume, a fist-sized mound of airy white netted by a drizzle of chocolate sauce.
+
+This was not the fanciest, nor even largest, mocha that I had ever had. It was not the most whipped cream I had ever seen in one sitting. Nothing about it was special --- a hot drink in a cup with a mound of whipped cream.
+
+And yet, when Hasher set it down before me on the counter, I burst into tears.
+
+``Oh\ldots oh no,'' they mumbled and hurried around the corner of the bar, taking me gently by the elbow and guiding me over to the L-shaped couch in the corner of the coffee shop half of the building. Once I was seated, they ducked away to grab my mocha and set it on the low table nearby.
+
+It took longer than I care to admit for the storm to pass, and even then, there were false endings: I would stop crying and settle into sniffling and then some emotion that I did not have access to, could not feel directly, would wash over me like a wave, and I would be sent once more into wracking sobs.
+
+It occurs to me, now that I think back on that moment, that I had not cried until then. I lay, curled, beneath my desk and did nothing. I turned off as much input as I could for the vast majority of the time, and such often came with turning off as much output as I could, too. I stopped moving. I stopped eating and drinking. I never got around to venting emotions or shedding tears. I borrowed all of that from the future, and now that debt was being called due. Perhaps my voice had left me because it knew that if I were to speak, this would happen.
+
+And all the while, Hasher sat beside me, head bowed. They did not touch me, did not even talk to me, they simply sat beside me and let me work through this period without being alone. They witnessed this pain. They were present for it.
+
+\emph{If I were to disappear now,} I thought, \emph{if another wave of disappearances were to happen and claim me, at least this Hasher would notice.}
+
+It took nearly half an hour before I was first able to take a sip of my mocha, having thoroughly worn myself out and forked twice to ensure that I could breathe properly and was less of a mess.
+
+The tears, though, lingered just on the horizon, or perhaps just below the surface, and so I leaned yet again on signing. I knew that if I spoke, I would fall to crying once more.
+
+``This is very good.''
+
+Hasher smiled. ``Are you okay now?''
+
+``No, not really.''
+
+``I do not think anyone is.'' He looked over to the other half of the shop. ``Cosmia hasn't said anything other than names these last two days. She lost a few friends, and from her perspective, she lost whole portions of herself. I have told her to take off every time she comes in. I can just work both sides, right? But she just shakes her head and stays, and whispers all of these names.''
+
+I thought about this. I thought about myself. I set these two ideas of people next each other and compared them side by side. I looked over to Cosmia, who had set her hands on the workbench and bowed her head, shoulders hunched, mumbling to herself.
+
+``Maybe she needs the names heard by someone other than just herself.''
+
+Returned his gaze to me, curious. ``Did you lose anyone?''
+
+``No.~Yes. I do not know. No one I know, so many that I did not.'' I could feel that talking about this was shoving me towards yet more tears, but what else was there to talk about? Nothing. Would I talk about the coffee more? Would I talk about my work? Would I talk about what my plans were for the coming day? Week? Month? The tears returned, and I signed clumsily, hastily. ``Everyone always says we have three deaths: the last breath, burial, and the last time a name is spoken. If Cosmia is reciting the names of ones who never even had the chance to get buried, then maybe she is doing a \emph{mitzvah.} But who speaks the names of us? I was hiding and then I was worried I would disappear and so I came here so that if I \emph{did,} at least someone would notice, but what if everyone here disappears, too? What if Lagrange goes down again? Will someone speak all of our names? How long will God forget us? Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.''
+
+At my outburst, Hasher had jolted back, though even as they relaxed their posture, their expression remained dire, and only got more so as I continued on and on past the point where I was staying anything sensible.
+
+I drew my feet up onto the couch with me and hugged around my knees. I could not sign another apology like that, and counted it as a blessing. I was made of apologies already. I was a being of `sorry'.
+
+After a moment of gathering themself, of wiping their nose on their sleeve, they signed, ``What's your name?''
+
+The prospect of spelling out my name exhausted me, a fact that always irked me in turn. I was so tired. I was so tired. I swallowed down yet more tears and ick, took a breath, and croaked, ``What Right Have I.''
+
+They opened their mouth to say something, hesitated, and their expression grew distant as, I guessed, they checked the perisystem directory. ``Ode clade?''
+
+I nodded.
+
+``Well, What Right Have I of the Ode clade, I'll be sure to remember your name,'' they said.
+
+I buried my face against my knees, snout tucked against my thighs.
+
+I remained there on that couch for an hour, then for two, and then, after a brief exchange with Hasher, for the night. The shop was open at all hours, and so I remained there for a day, a week, a month. I sat shiva for I knew not who for a week, sitting on that couch, a settled into shloshim.
+
+Hasher spoke with me every one of those days. They would sit on the couch and we would speak together and tell each other stories of who we had been before the Century Attack, and wonder together if we would be the same now, after. We shared coffee and we talked.
+
+They told me how they uploaded because someone once told them that there were endless open roads with no cars on which to cycle. They said that it sounded so beautiful, all that flat prairie and flat asphalt, the cool breezes on warm days, the intersections where cars would never cross, that they decided to upload here to Lagrange rather than remain phys-side or to pursue any one of the other other uploading options. They might enjoy life in Netspace, perhaps, and doubtless there were open roads on which to cycle there, too, but \emph{here,} here on Lagrange, they knew that there would be waiting for them open prairies and open roads.
+
+I told them how I uploaded because my dearest friend had given emself to build this place, to become a part of it, had become the world itself. I told them how I was so split after I had been locked inside my head by the cruelty of others that I could not stand the prospect of living longer than I had to in the embodied world, and had thus embedded myself here, back before it was called Lagrange, back before we all dreamed the same dream together. I told them how I, then Michelle, had first forked, and then Oh, But To Whom had forked, and then Rav From Whence forked. I told them how I became \emph{me} and not \emph{them,} and yet how I remained them in some integral way.
+
+We spoke daily, and for nearly a month straight. I still see them at least once a week, for a friendship borne out of tragedy is still a friendship at its core. A bond borne of trauma is still a bond nonetheless.
+
+I slept there, too. Mostly in little naps, where I would curl up on the ends of the couches or, when I was sure that there was little chance that anyone would need the couch, in the vertex, where two sides of me were surrounded by cushion and I could feel them against my back. I would curl there, at the ends or in the vertex, and I would block out the light with my forearm or a book or my tail, tugged around and draped over my face. The first sleep was on accident, but, after asking and asking again, Hasher and the others that I came to know there reassured me that I was welcome to continue. I had become a fixture of the place, they said, and they said that I offered a sense of companionship even when I was silent.
+
+Some three weeks after I had essentially decamped from my office and had begun living on on the couch at The Bean Cycle, I was visited by two of my cocladists, If I Dream and Slow Hours.
+
+You must understand: when I stepped away from my office to The Bean Cycle, I did not tell anyone. I did not tell\ldots anyone. I simply left, and now I am wondering what made me do that. What, among all of my anxiety around simply disappearing without a trace and not being missed, led me to disappear without a trace?
+
+And despite my fears, it is not as though I was not missed! I was within a few hours pinged by Rav From Whence, and I could tell from the anxiety that suffused this ping that she was worried. She was terrified. She was panicked that I was gone. She was worried! Her very on up-tree, the one with whom she got in the occasional spat, made up, and then held paws, the one around whom she could be the most vulnerable, the one who was \emph{of} her had vanished. She had disappeared, and this after so many disappeared. One percent! 23 \emph{billion!} So many disappeared, and now I was gone.
+
+Her ping was panicked and came with a sense of tears.
+
+I responded with soothing, but without words. It was the best I could manage, for I knew that, if I \emph{were} to respond with words, I would cry again, and I had so tenuously moved on from tears just half an hour prior.
+
+A few times a day for every day after that she would ping again, or send me worried-sounding sensorium messages --- once, she even sent me a letter --- and I would always respond with a gentle ping back, though I did not return home.
+
+And so instead, Rav From Whence begged If I Dream to come and find me, to ask me to return home, and If I Dream, perhaps intuiting some of my feelings about wanting to remain, instead brought along Slow Hours to merely have a conversation, one of the few within the clade outside of her stanza that she considered at least a fond acquaintance, if not a friend.
+
+I was not myself, then. Or I was too much myself, perhaps. I rode the edge of groundedness, sat at the precipice of ordered and disordered thinking. I spent so much of my time thinking in circles, as often I do in such times, that I often worked myself up into a tizzy, my words scattered and my tail frizzy. I was not myself. I was struggling with a disconnect, or a connection that had wrapped around me too tightly.
+
+And so If I Dream and Slow Hours and I sat on that couch and spoke. They visited as friends and promised that they would only bring back to Rav From Whence my current status rather than my location. They were there to make sure that I was okay --- Slow Hours explained that she was doing her best to meet up with as much of the clade as possible to ascertain their statuses --- and precious little else. We had coffee. We cried together. We spoke of some of the shared aspects of our past, that had, through their very definition as tragedy, brought us closer together, even if only for a time.
+
+We spoke also of our dreams.
+
+Slow Hours is known among our clade as one who dreams of things that will come. She is our seer and prophetess. She is our Delphic oracle. She will tell you your future --- or three of your futures, for she is as keen on hendiatris as I am --- and let you suss out which of the three is the lie in her little game of Two Truths and a Lie.
+
+She explains this readily, though: she has read enough --- more than enough --- that she can guess at the trajectory of one's life after hearing a story better than they could themselves. She is not scrying into the future, no, but reading the present and telling the rest of the tale as it might occur.
+
+She has, however, had four prophetic dreams. Truly prophetic dreams. Dreams that she could not have known would come to pass, and yet which all the same did. It was not surprising to us that she had had such dreams. Of \emph{course} she would have such dreams. She was \emph{Slow Hours.} That is just what she \emph{did.} She was our dreamer.
+
+But no, what was surprising to me was my own dream.
+
+It was not a prophecy, for it was about the Century Attack and yet it was a dream that I only had at The Bean Cycle. It was a dream about events that had already happened.
+
+What surprised me instead was the intensity and regularity of this dream, for I dreamed it several times while there. Granted, my sleep during that month spent essentially living in a coffee shop was not great. I would sleep for an hour or two on the couch or dozing in the sun out in Infinite Café nearby, spend some time speaking with Hasher or Cosmia or any of the other baristas and bike mechanics or patrons that I would come to know. I might then read for a while, or study. I would pull books from my collection via the exchange or the perisystem library rather than stepping back to my office. I would step out into the street outside The Bean Cycle and walk through the college campus it huddled up beside, or I would instead step out back and walk a chord of Infinite Café. And then, perhaps some four or five hours later, I would sleep for another two or three hours. It was not good sleep, and I was always tired during that time.
+
+For many of those sleeps, those naps or long rests, I dreamed the same thing:
+
+I was a non-entity. I was disembodied. I was not even a mote of a being. I was just an identity that existed in space.
+
+I was before a person, and no matter how hard I looked, I could not actually see their face. It was there, yes, and I am sure that they had the features that any face might, but it was always too bright or too dark or I had something in my non-eyes that made them blurry to me.
+
+I was before a person and they were weeping. They were laughing and they were weeping. Their breath came in great, heaving sobs, and with those breaths came so many tears that I was worried that they would fall to the ground and puddle around their feet. With those breaths came moans and whines and laughs and cries and prayers and prayers and prayers. I do not know what they were praying for. Strength, perhaps. They were not prayers that I recognized.
+
+I was before a person, and then, without warning, they dissipated into a cloud of black specks, and each back speck was a horrible, wretched thing. It was something to never touch. Stay away, it said. I am poison. I am death.
+
+And yet these motes of poison sought out others. They drifted along air currents or traveled along wires or simply shot from one person to the next. They would sometimes land splat against that person's forehead and melt down over their face in an inky blackness, or at other times they might burrow their way into the chest of that person and, though I could see it not, ramify through their blood vessels or wires or whatever that person had, and in both cases, that person would, too, dissolve into these specks of death, which would go on to affect hundreds or thousands more.
+
+And throughout, I remained a non-person, and so I was unaffected. With no transition, I would be in front of this person or that person and I would watch them die.
+
+My mind latched onto those that I knew had died and it would then show me their deaths, quiet or loud, agonizing or full of relief.
+
+I saw Should We Forget, that quiet woman from the tenth stanza who, in my dream, wore a secret smile as she died.
+
+I saw No Longer Myself, this person about whom I knew nothing, and in my dream she merely looked away, as though seeing something greater.
+
+I saw Beckoning, and in my dream, she had gone inside a house that I imagined for her and her beloved Muse, and her death struck as she stepped over the threshold, so that no foot of hers ever stepped inside.
+
+One by one by one by one. I watched death after death after death after death. I never saw the end of the dream, when the whole world is silent, but I imagine that such must have been the case.
+
+I know, of course, that I essentially dreamed the mechanics of the Century Attack. Someone uploaded with a virus that was designed to find everyone that a person had interacted with, sys-side, and then kill that person before moving on through that list of people in order to repeat the process until the entire System was dead.
+
+After sharing this dream with Slow Hours and If I Dream, though, it ceased visiting me, and I have not had it since, for which I am glad, as the most nightmarish aspect of it was that I felt nothing throughout. This non-entity that I was simply watched, dispassionate.
+
+Ah, but my thoughts are wandering. I am thinking in circles. I have gotten hung up on a dream that, yes, bears meaning and, yes, I did want to share, but the whole reason that I started to write this entry was because Slow Hours and If I Dream and I all spoke also about overflow.
+
+I spoke with them out of pain, at this point in our conversation, for I was in pain. I was aching.
+
+I know that for each of us, our overflow manifests in different ways --- as well it must, for I am not my cocladists.
+
+I know that Oh, But To Whom is overcome by intense spiritual doubt when she overflows. I know because I remember, and because often she has met with Rav From Whence and I to speak, to weep, to cry out that she does not know why it is that she had even bothered digging into this aspect of her past. Why have faith, now, here in this life after life? This was not the world to come. From here we could not repair the world below. If God was real, They had long ago abandoned us. Jews had lost their way, and good riddance, for Medinat Yisrael had so turned to evil that the idea of a promised land had become poisoned.
+
+These things and more she would say to us, would weep and cry out, and Rav or I would sit with her and pet her back and offer her sweet and mild treats and an ear to listen to. I know this also because I had \emph{been} her. I remember that weeping, and it informs my own overflow.
+
+I know that From Whence overflows at times --- not too often, but it does happen --- and when she does, she is full of doubt. Who is she to stand in front of others and teach? Who is she to lead? Who is she to meddle in the affairs of Jews on such a grand scale? Who is she to say yes, yes or no, no on this matter or that? Matters of halakha? Hah! What right had she?
+
+These things and more she would whisper to me, having joined me in my room to come sit beside me on the beanbag, leaning shoulder to shoulder, and I would brush through her mane or hold her paw and hold my tics at bay for the comfort of quiet. I know this also because I had \emph{been} her. I remember the doubts, and it informs my overflow.
+
+And so, with there being in my heart already two forms of overflow, I am left with a complicated mess of feelings. I am left with the spiritual doubt of Oh, But To Whom, yes, and the social doubt of Rav From Whence, but these have become all muddled together and mixed up with the particularities of what it means to be me, What Right Have I, all of those neuroses and all of that history and a healthy dose of self-loathing atop.
+
+What right have I indeed, I think, and yet it is not quite so simple, for at times this manifests as spiritual agony, and at times as spiritual ecstasy. I will be caught up in doubt. I will feel cut off from all that I hold dear. I will feel dull and stupid and ugly and unworthy. I will pray and all words will feel hollow to me. I will yearn to hear the still, small voice of \emph{HaShem} and hear nothing. There will be no still, small voice, no \emph{bat kol,} for how could there be? I am not \emph{b'tzelem Elohim} and so why would \emph{HaShem} deign to speak to me? My words are worse than ash, for from ash may still be brought lye for making soap. They are worse than dirt, for from dirt may still come clay to make some new pot. They are an illness. A pointless summer cold. A nuisance that does not make one stronger or hardier after, but which merely slows one down. To say that they are somehow an impediment to one getting further in life gives to them too much credit: they are an annoyance and a waste of time. There is no Divine Author behind my words, providing instruction, and no Artisan made me, and so I am nothing to the Divine. I am a vacuum, an empty space.
+
+\emph{Or} --- and this I think is very me and not From Whence or Oh, But To Whom --- I will be caught up in the glowing ecstasy of this identity, this inherited faith in God. I will more than just wrap myself up in it, all of these feelings of believing, of the push/pull of questioning that is also our birthright. I will instead wrap myself to the point of constriction. I will press and squeeze myself. I will choke myself. I will cut off circulation. All that I am will risk being subsumed by this rush of only one small portion of myself.
+
+Energy! Ecstasy! Engage! Engage! Engage! I will let this thing that I am become too much, will become more of myself than I really should be, because then I start to lose track of my boundaries, my barriers, my extents!
+
+It is not pleasant. It may sound pleasant, and at times it may feel pleasant, but it is akin to hypomania, perhaps: it is just depression at the speed of sound. It is feeling terrible, but because one is redlining. I will wrap myself up to the point of choking in that it means to be me, choke myself with my favorite adjectives, cut off circulation with words and words and words, but it will all be for nothing. My words will be for nothing at all. I will go back to see what it is that I have said or written, and it will be meaningless. It will be drivel at its worst. Nonsense. It will, at its best, have the seeming of correctness, but only the seeming, but at its core, it is built of crumpled up paper and twigs, not some more solid foundation.
+
+And so, I will swing slowly one way or the other, drifting and floating off-center until I fall into overflow for some days or weeks, and only after having gone through and come out the other side will I be able to recenter myself.
+
+I am drifting now. I am floating. I am seeing the world waver as my identity begins to fray. I am not myself. I am overwhelmed. I am overflowing. I am on the edge of overflow. My life is emptying out, my self is becoming hollow, and I am losing the sound of that still small voice, the feel of being made in the image of God. I am overflowing. I am on the edge of overflow. I was then and I am now.

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}