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update from sparkleup

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Madison Rye Progress 2024-06-28 20:31:14 -07:00
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writing/post-self/idumea/008.md
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@ -8,30 +8,12 @@ I am very nearly there, too, to the end that you doubtless know is coming. There
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We are women, much of the clade. There are some men, yes, and many who have exited such limitations as gender offers, but many of us remain women. Woman who are skunks, perhaps, or women who are cats, or women who are shamed some other thing — for is not
We are women, much of the clade. There are some men, yes, and many who have exited such limitations as gender offers, but many of us remain women. Woman who are skunks, perhaps, or women who are cats, or women who are shamed some other thing — for is not there also joy in the furry identity with which we fell in love so many centuries ago? — but we are women still. We are so many of us still the short and fat and white and Jewish and dramatic and at-times-ebullient and at-times-depressed women that once Michelle who was Sasha embodied.
I can still look like this! I think we all can. You know as well as I do, dear friends, that
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.epigraph {
width: calc(100%);
margin: 0;
padding: 0;
border-radius: 1px;
}
.dark-mode .epigraph {
filter: invert(1) brightness(0.9);
}
.source {
width: 100%;
font-size: 10pt;
text-align: right;
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.graphomania {
overflow-x: hidden;
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</style>
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.
@ -57,6 +39,25 @@ 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?
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, *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?
<style>
.epigraph {
width: calc(100%);
margin: 0;
padding: 0;
border-radius: 1px;
}
.dark-mode .epigraph {
filter: invert(1) brightness(0.9);
}
.source {
width: 100%;
font-size: 10pt;
text-align: right;
}
.graphomania {
overflow-x: hidden;
}
</style>
<div class="graphomania">
<span style="background-color: transparent; position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; position: relative; left: 0em; top: 0em; opacity: 1">And am I born to die? </span>