Edits

content/draft/004.md

@@ -86,13 +86,13 @@ And then she finally was able to relax.
 
 None of them spoke, once she was settled. Both A Finger Pointing and Beholden quickly drifted back to sleep, and although there were the occasional flashes of skunk/human face, exhausted and sneering, behind her closed eyelids, Motes soon followed.
 
-It wasn't until morning came, when Beholden had slipped away for a few minutes and returned with three mugs of coffee on a tray, when all three of them sat up in bed, leaning against the headrest, tray set before them, that she told them of the dream.
+It was not until morning came, when Beholden had slipped away for a few minutes and returned with three mugs of coffee on a tray, when all three of them sat up in bed, leaning against the headrest, tray set before them, that she told them of the dream.
 
 "I do not remember it all that well, now," she said holding the oversized mug carefully in comparatively small paws. "But Michelle was there, and she was really upset with me. She kept saying that I was gross and a fetishist and stuff, and that she could not believe that she had this in her, and then she made me kill myself."
 
 "Jesus, Dot," Beholden said, frowning over the rim of her mug. She reached her free arm around the skunk's shoulders and tugged her close against her side in a hug. "I am sorry to hear that. That sounds awful."
 
-"It really does, my dear." A Finger Pointing leaned over to kiss at the tips of her ears. "And I think that it is demonstrably untrue that she did not not have this in her. You exist, Motes. You are absolutely my up-tree, and I know where you got it from." She smiled. "And I am absolutely her up-tree, am I not?"
+"It really does, my dear." A Finger Pointing leaned over to kiss at the tips of her ears. "And I think that it is demonstrably untrue that she did not have this in her. You exist, Motes. You are absolutely my up-tree, and I know where you got it from." She smiled. "And I am absolutely her up-tree, am I not?"
 
 Doing her best to hold still despite the ticklishness of the kisses, Motes nodded. "I know. It was just a dream. Dreams are not real."
 
@@ -128,7 +128,7 @@ The fifth stanza had begun its life in an apartment building. As many studios an
 
 Now, the fifth stanza — along with however many other lovers and friends, coworkers and groupies, up-trees and tracking instances —  occupied a sprawling neighborhood of houses and townhomes, yards and copses of trees, and yes, even a playground. The whole neighborhood crowded against an untamed field, a prairie, a meadow laced up with deer trails and footpaths, dotted with yet more copses of trees lining a creek.
 
-For each of those who lived there, the neighborhood was theirs in some specific way, and for Motes, it was hers to color.
+For each of those who lived there, the neighborhood was theirs in some specific way, and for Motes, it was hers to paint.
 
 Motes had painted it all hundreds of times, of course.
 
@@ -136,7 +136,7 @@ She had painted the prairie, painted the neighborhood, painted those who lived t
 
 Thus, when, still sleepy, she trudged out of the ranch-style home she shared with A Finger Pointing and Beholden, colored lines of flowering vines trailed after her bare paws. She guided those vines with her steps or, relishing in a secret pleasure, pretended like they were propelling her forward, pretending that she was a being of growth — that she was a seed, a being of potential — that she was a giant at the head of some toppled beanstalk.
 
-The vines or her feet carried her down through the neighborhood at a contemplative pace, giving her time to think of the conversation she wanted to have before she actually had it. She spoke so often without thinking, letting that be a part of her nature rather than some simple flaw, that to approach something so deliberately as this set her mood from the beginning, and by the time she drifted up one set of steps to a duplex near the far end of the neighborhood, many of her doubts had been set atop well-lit pedestals, and placards beneath each labeled their names, their creators, their provenance.
+The vines or her feet carried her down through the neighborhood at a contemplative pace, giving her time to think of the conversation she wanted to have before she actually had it. She spoke so often without thinking, letting that be a part of her nature rather than some simple flaw, that to approach something so deliberately as this set her mood from the beginning, and by the time she drifted up the set of steps to a duplex near the far end of the neighborhood, many of her doubts had been set atop well-lit pedestals, and placards beneath each labeled their names, their creators, their provenance.
 
 No one answered the door when she knocked, so she hesitantly pressed the doorbell. This, she knew — for it was the same throughout the neighborhood — was created to send a sensorium ping to the inhabitant.
 
@@ -248,7 +248,7 @@ Motes shrugged. "I guess."
 
 Slow Hours nodded, letting her paws go. "I will not say "fuck 'em", much as either of us might want. You must not hyperfixate on them, but neither must you disregard them."
 
-"Why? Do you have a prophecy for me?" Motes asked, grinning faintly. "The last time you gave me a prophecy, it was about whether I should stay friends with Alexei."
+"Why? Do you have a prophecy for me?" Motes asked, smiling faintly. "The last time you gave me a prophecy, it was about whether I should stay friends with Alexei."
 
 She laughed. "I remember that, yes. You were bound to run into someone who was also into kidcore stuff as Big Motes, and we were stifling you." The mirth faded to something more thoughtful. "But, yes, I have a prediction for you: the clade is not done with you, And We Are The Motes In The Stage-Lights. Even those who have cut you off have not forgotten you, and it is best that you not forget them."