edits, work, typo

content/prelim/005.md

@@ -348,116 +348,125 @@ Rather than reply to my message directly, ey simply blinked into being in the en
 
 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?"
 
-((Warmth answers. Perhaps they are dreadfully earnest. Perhaps it is evasive, and quickly asks about the conversation.))
-<!-- Warmth discusses art with EoE -->
+"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?"
 
-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?"  
+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 *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."
 
-"I am an oneirotect," it answered. "A construct artist, if you must be such a bore. I think of myself most of all as ((a nostalgia something or other))."
+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 tilted her head in that way so familiar to us.   
+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."
 
-"Nostalgia? Is there a draw to that for you, or is that something you find others hungering for?"
+"Well, I am an oneirotect," it answered. "A construct artist, if you must be such a bore. I think of myself most of all as an aficionado of nostalgia."
 
-The Oneirotect, ((clearly delighted by my question)), brought its paws together ((over the table)). "*Yes\!*"  
+The Woman tilted her head in that way so familiar to us. "Nostalgia? Is there a draw to that for you, or is that something you find others hungering for?"
 
-It let ((the humor of that comment)) stew for a moment before ((actually answering my question)). "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.  
+The Oneirotect, clearly delighted by so simple a question, brought its paws together over the table, folded neat and prim. "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 ((examples/hendiatris)) — but most of all I enjoy the research that ((such work requires))."
+"I find joy in creating these constructs — these *things*, this *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. "I favor culinary constructs *now*, but that has only become the case since I met Codrin. ((Something something "Why not REDACTED? Aren't they the fancy chef?"))  
+"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."
 
-"That said, I *did* begin with ((obscure \[this choice of words is too white for someone with Warmth's background to be indulging uncritically\])) fruits\! Most of the heavy lifting had already been done by the time I began exploring oneirotecture, but there remained numerous ((gaps in the available selection of constructs)). That experience was *most* formative."
+I chuckled, shrugged.
 
-"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?"  
+"Very well. I favor culinary constructs now, but that has only become the case since I met Codrin. <!-- ((Something something "Why not REDACTED? Aren't they the fancy chef?")) --> That said, I did begin with endangered and extinct fruits! Most of the heavy lifting had already been done by the time I began exploring oneirotecture, but there remained gaps in what was available. That experience was most formative."
 
-The Oneirotect tilted its head, ((cute ear lopping over etc etc)). "It is not as if none before me had dreamt of food ((like grandma used to make)), but what I offered was particularly attuned to that, 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?"
 
-"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."
+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."
 
-"For others, then. ((I love you,)) Rye, but that bit of ((communalism)) did not come until *much* later. No, instead I drummed up interested parties from the feeds ((commissions, Rep still meant something back then, nostalgia, food unfamiliar to Warmth, etc))"  
+"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."
 
-"…These foods were unfamiliar to me, you see, and that is where research ((comes into play))…"  
+<!--TODO-->
+"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 ((commissions, Rep still meant something back then, nostalgia, food unfamiliar to Warmth, etc))"
 
-"…For commission; Reputation still meant something back then, of course, and I was still dipping my toes into instance artistry before Dear forked, yes?"  
+"...These foods were unfamiliar to me, you see, and that is where research ((comes into play))..."
 
-((Somewhere in here: Note on System as Artistry))
+"...For commission; Reputation still meant something back then, of course, and I was still dipping my toes into instance artistry before Dear forked, yes?"
 
 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. ((Rye maybe goes on a bit about her feelings on this))  
+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. She worked and strove and wept and bled over her chosen path, and then she was naught.
 
-The end result, however, was that she was lost to us. She was gone from us. Her art *took* her from us, it *killed* her. Such is the danger of art, dear readers: it takes as easily — more easily\! — than it gives.  
+She — that other Warmth In Fire — was lost to us. She was gone from us. Her art took her from us, it killed her. 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.
 
-((Present-day Rye has a moment about this))
+"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."
 
-"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 ((X)), was it?"  
+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."
 
-I nodded. "But by then, ((it who would become)) Dear had been forked, and so ((Warmth filled that vacancy))."  
+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."
 
-((EoE remembers this? "Ah, right."))
+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:
 
-((Warmth struggles to speak at first, caught up in emotion. It was Dear at the time, and watched as who-was-Warmth as she descended into despair and, eventually, quit.)) "I am that which was left behind when Dear chose to forget the Name."  
+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, int 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.
 
-"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."  
+Its goal was to change its sensorium enough that it would not be able to access the Name of our beloved Dreamer again.
 
-((Warmth adds some detail to what is already known to EoE, i.e. that Dear forked from it, that it was the backup fork, that it took on the name Warmth In Fire because that line had been vacated by another up-tree of Rye's.))
+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 a Dear, and certainly not as a fennec."
 
-((Warmth visibly masters a note of annihilation upon hearing this. It hurts to hear, *and* EoE is completely right)) "When I stepped from that sim, 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."  
+((Warmth visibly masters a note of annihilation upon hearing this. It hurts to hear, and EoE is completely right)) "When I stepped from that sim, 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 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 laughed.
 
-The Woman laughed.  
+"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?
 
-"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?  
+((Warmth spends some time pensively structuring its thoughts, trying to reclaim some sort of agency before it falls into a negativity spiral; that topic is always especially difficult to stumble across, and it had already started to recite some of those familiar phrases it so often repeats)) "You have come to Rye and I searching for ((joy and 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?"
 
-((convincing the clade to let her become new-Warmth despite all the bitterness of such))
+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."
 
-((Warmth spends some time pensively structuring its thoughts, trying to reclaim some sort of agency before it falls into a negativity spiral; that topic is always especially difficult to stumble across, and it had already started to recite some of those familiar phrases it so often repeats)) "You have come to Rye and I searching for ((joy and 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?"  
-
-((Note for editing: How is Warmth showing their affection for/familiarity with the tenth stanza in particular here? How is it grappling with the awareness that EoE is here seeking something other than em dumping its life story on her?))
-
-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."  
-
-((something?)) ((It beams, smug and sly, *not* very Dear — it is very *Warmth* because while it inherited that quippiness, it lost Rye's motherly warmth; Warmth In Fire did not. Here is Warmth being warm. Here is Warmth being insightful and supportive. Here is Warmth taking control for End Of Endings's sake. Here is Warmth looking for some way to stop traumadumping on EOE and start guiding her closer towards self-understanding, towards a resolution, towards peace.))  
+((something?)) ((It beams, smug and sly, not very Dear — it is very Warmth because while it inherited that quippiness, it lost Rye's motherly warmth; Warmth In Fire did not. Here is Warmth being warm. Here is Warmth being insightful and supportive. Here is Warmth taking control for End Of Endings's sake. Here is Warmth looking for some way to stop traumadumping on EOE and start guiding her closer towards self-understanding, towards a resolution, towards 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? 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?"
+"Is that what you feel you are now, my dear? 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.  
+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.  
+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. 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? Is every time I receive such joy, is it only to slip away?"
 
-((Warmth seems uncomfortable with this sentiment, that joy is fleeting. It has worked *so* hard to become able to appreciate the joys it has, despite the equally-ephemeral agonies it suffers at the hands of perfectionism and impostor syndrome.)) "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?"
+((Warmth seems uncomfortable with this sentiment, that joy is fleeting. It has worked so hard to become able to appreciate the joys it has, despite the equally-ephemeral agonies it suffers at the hands of perfectionism and impostor syndrome.)) "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…" 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."
+"The..." 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."
 
-((Warmth is along for the ride up until the word *agency*, when it scrunches up its face and rears eir head back as if someone had pressed on the tip of her little nose. How often has 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?)) "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?"  
+((Warmth is along for the ride up until the word agency, when it scrunches up its face and rears eir head back as if someone had pressed on the tip of her little nose. How often has 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?)) "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?"
 
-((Warmth falls silent for a moment, gaze drifting outward towards 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 \[sic\] a horror." ((something something we all go quiet while Warmth grapples with its silently tearful emotions.))
+((Warmth falls silent for a moment, gaze drifting outward towards 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 [sic] a horror." ((something something we all go quiet while Warmth grapples with its silently tearful emotions.))
 
-Here, my friends, I must explain something. I must explain the Warmth In Fire before The Warmth In Fire. I must explain The Sightwright who is no more.  
+Here, my friends, I must explain something. I must explain the Warmth In Fire before The 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.   
+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 does((did?)). 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. They suffered because of their art. They suffered because of the world around them. They suffered perhaps because we are all built to suffer.  
+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. 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 suffered as do my beloved up-tree and I,\label{winthrop} but they also suffered as did — I must explain, also, or perhaps remind — Death Itself and I Do Not Know.
 
-They quit.  
+They quit.
 
-They suffered too much. They *were*, and then they *were not.*  
+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. ((we'll edit it in post))
 
@@ -465,21 +474,63 @@ I must explain and I must remind to set before you the context of what The Oneir
 
 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."
 
-((Warmth is not the Child, but my beloved up-tree is also my very own little one. \[not enough here. elaborate\] So overcome by the gross 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*\!"  
+((Warmth is not the Child, but my beloved up-tree is also my very own little one. [not enough here. elaborate] So overcome by the gross 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!"
 
-((Naturally, we wonder who the Warmth before Warmth was. What did they do? What were they like? Did they suffer? Is this something we omit to keep the reader salivating because Idumea is not about Warmth?))  
+((A bit more coziness))
 
-((Rye tells us about this so that we have context for Warmth's guess. For what Warmth says next. Warmth points out the elephant. "Are you planning to quit?"))
+"A reminder, that 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."
 
-((Now we are getting into Samsara vs. escape, the question of whether joy is worth the pain, the question of whether EOE is willing to be content with what joys she has in exchange for occasional suffering))
+The Woman bowed her head, though whether in acknowledgment or a pensive shift in her thoughts, I could not tell. Perhaps it was both ((more Rye waffling)). "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?"
 
-((A bit more coziness))  
+((Warmth finally recomposes itself, reassured of End Of Endings's longevity.)) "Yes," ((she answers 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?" ((Warmth's cadence fires 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."
 
-"A reminder, that art is not strictly joy, but also suffering," I cautioned most gently. "With art comes fear. 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."
+((She pauses, 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 _precisely_ how wrong every act has turned out." ((The Oneirotect's fervor softens 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."
 
-((Art is suffering — we know that The Woman wants out of suffering))  
+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?"
 
-((What does it mean for Warmth to fail? Callback))
+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 etc etc)) "You speak of purpose: it is also the sharing of what goes _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 _with_ others. I read and give feedback."
+
+At this she smiled wryly. "We _were_ teachers, 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 _communitas?"_ ((it pondered.)) "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."
+
+((Rye has a tangent about pride in her beloved up-tree, as well as commiseration with that exhaustion))
+
+"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 _my_  joy, on what _I_ might gain from being able to pick up 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? ((Etc))
+
+"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 _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 _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 softly, 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 _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 shakes its head in disbelief at itself.)) "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 _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...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," ((started The Oneirotect, standing 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 _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 slid up beside her, placing both paws on her knees and looking up at The Woman.)) "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?"
 
 
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