update from sparkleup

writing/3/seasons/index.md

@@ -2,10 +2,13 @@
 
 [Notes](notes)
 
+
+<!-- Move to within -->
 > As such, 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. (Weinberger, pg. 46)
 
+<!-- Move to footnote:
 When I studied music, back in university, back as I was starting to get into software engineering, I found the dichotomy surrounding repeatability between these two subjects self-evident. There is a special curse for software bugs that are not easily repeated: Heisenbugs[^heisenbugs]. On the other hand, though, there *is* no way to ever perform the same song twice, even for the same singers, the same instrumentalists, the same conductors. Even with the same audience, that time any time must perforce pass in so time-bound an art means that those who hear the song 
 
 A year spirals up.
@@ -15,6 +18,7 @@ A day, a week, a month, they all spiral, for any one Sunday is like the previous
 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 and 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?
+-->
 
 ## Spring