update from sparkleup
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@ -1,3 +1,5 @@
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<!-- 1 -->
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Once upon a time there was–
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"A king?" my little readers will immediately say.
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@ -118,6 +120,8 @@ No rituals. No overflowing. Just peace. It is hard to experience peace, hard to
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<!-- 2 -->
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The Woman decided to go walking one day. Perhaps she was driven by restlessness. She had an errand to run, sure, but this day she decided to go out walking rather than perform this task at home or simply blip into being at her destination. Perhaps she was bored! I do not know.
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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.
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@ -298,6 +302,8 @@ But, ah! This story is not about me. I am not quite overflowing yet, and The Wom
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<!-- 3 -->
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The turn away from joy was slow and, at first, unnoticeable.
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The Woman did all that she could to hang onto joy whenever it slipped into her life. We all do, do we not? When I find a bakery that serves delectable treats, for instance, I will eat in the tiniest bites I can get away with — nearly crumbs! — just to let the joy of such a treat linger longer on my tongue. The woman did this with her own joy, you see: she would cook these lovely desserts for herself and her cocladists that she might store up joy in carefully sweetened and delicately decorated cupcakes or muffins or cookies or brownies. Joy, it seems, is stored in the chocolate, and so she doles that out to those who deserve joy — and The Woman knows that even she deserves joy.
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@ -414,6 +420,8 @@ The Woman sat in silence along with Her Cocladist after that, and the house was
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<!-- 4 -->
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The Woman lingered long on the words of Her Cocladist: *aught else aside from our lot in life.*
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What *was* her lot in life? What was *a* lot in life? Was she limited only to one thing? Was she bound to stasis? And what, then, did it mean that a seed had been planted within her and had lately begun to sprout? What of her thoughts on eternal stillness?
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@ -687,6 +695,8 @@ There was joy, yes, but it was not a complete joy. Her hedonism with touch and s
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<!-- 5 -->
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Some of my readers may be wondering why it is that I know so much about The Woman.
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"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."
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@ -841,7 +851,7 @@ Readers, I am not ashamed to say that I cried again. How could I not, after all?
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I cried, and through it all, The Woman sat in kind silence.
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<!-- -->
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<!-- --> <!-- Why was this here? -->
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When, now for the second time, I was able to sit up straight again, able breath slowly, able to look at The Woman instead of my paws as I covered my face, I bowed to her and said, "Thank you for telling me these things. I did not realize just how much I needed to hear them."
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@ -1010,6 +1020,8 @@ At last, I said, "Would it be alright if I were to invite over Warmth? It is my
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<!-- 6 -->
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The Woman has always been The Woman. This is the way of the world.
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The Woman was born Michelle Rachel Hadje in 2086. On a March night, she was born. Anna Judith Hadje screamed and screamed and breathed and breathed and breathed and, with a gasp or sigh or groan or moan, Michelle graced the world, took a breath and, after a scant few seconds, wailed.
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@ -1180,6 +1192,8 @@ And above was the sun which was also The Dreamer who dreams us all.
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<!-- 7 -->
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<!-- Maybe this is just an interlude as she comes down from overflowing and not actually part of the tasks. That way it can keep its place. -->
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When at last The Woman returned home, she performed a new ritual. She performed a ritual of mourning.
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