diff --git a/writing/3/terrifying/triumph.md b/writing/3/terrifying/triumph.md
index 8082ab36..a46674d3 100644
--- a/writing/3/terrifying/triumph.md
+++ b/writing/3/terrifying/triumph.md
@@ -2,7 +2,7 @@
 
 That is the thing about hate, about loathing, even of oneself. There is a certain amount of love that has to go into that struggle. There is a certain amount of need and desire, because if there is no one there to vanquish, then what are we-who-strive even to do?
 
-> I wish I could see your triumph. \parencite[128]{timewar}
+> I wish I could see your triumph.\footnote{\parencite[128]{timewar}}
 
 I wish I could see your triumph, me. I wish I could look up at you, broken and shattered, bleeding in the dust of unknown plains, and know --- truly, utterly know --- that I have been defeated, that I have been crushed and destroyed.
 
@@ -14,17 +14,17 @@ I wish I could see your triumph. I wish I could see elation in your eyes. I wish
 
 I wish I could see your triumph, and I wish that, should you see mine, you understand just how much love goes into our struggle, just how much need and desire I hold for you.
 
-> Do you laugh, sea foam? Do you smile, ice, and observe your triumph with an angel's remove? \parencite[128]{timewar}
+> Do you laugh, sea foam? Do you smile, ice, and observe your triumph with an angel's remove?\parencite{\parencite[128]{timewar}}
 
 As always, Rilke dogs me, a lingering taste hidden around some corner of my mouth. Every now and then, I think, *every angel is terrifying*, and then I'll go about my day, repeating that like a mantra: *every angel is terrifying every angel is terrifying every angel is terrifying every angel...*
 
-He saw someone do that, I think I remember the story went. He was walking, perhaps out in a sulk, and saw someone face the sea, throw their arms wide, cry out to sea foam or ice or some unseen rank of angels, and...well, I don't remember if *he* heard them, necessarily, but that's how it went, right? Who, though I cry, would hear me among the ranks of angels, and then hundreds of lines later, ten elegies.
+He saw someone do that, I think I remember the story went. He was walking, perhaps out in a sulk, and saw someone face the sea, throw their arms wide, cry out to sea foam or ice or some unseen rank of angels, and...well, I don't remember if *he* heard them, necessarily, but that's how it went, right?\footnote{\parencite{duinowiki}} Who, though I cry, would hear me among the ranks of angels, and then hundreds of lines later, ten elegies.
 
 So whenever I get that awkward-shaped piece of grit between my mouth --- *every angel is terrifying every angel is* --- I think of that scene. I think of the way we elevate the unknown to some higher place that ourselves. I think of the patterns we hunt for in the sea foam, in the waves that can take us under or bash us senseless against some barnacled rock. I think about the crush of worlds implied in the calving of an iceberg and how easily that could destroy. I think about that rank of angels who, holding me to their breast, could so easily annihilate?
 
 Do they laugh, the sea foam, the ice, the angels?
 
-> I write in fire across the sky, a plummet to match your rise. \parencite[129]{timewar}
+> I write in fire across the sky, a plummet to match your rise.\parencite{\parencite[129]{timewar}}
 
 So then, my angel, she who would live, I wish I could see your triumph.