update from sparkleup

writing/post-self/motes/004.md

@@ -89,3 +89,17 @@ A Finger Pointing leaned over to kiss at the tips of her ears. "It really does,
 Doing her best to hold still despite the ticklishness of the kisses, Motes nodded. "I know. It was just a dream, and dreams are not real."
 
 "Not unless you are Slow Hours," A Finger Pointing said, nodding. "And even then, there is no guarantee. But come, the details of the dream aside, how are you feeling now?"
+
+...
+
+The fifth stanza had begun its life in an apartment building. As many studios and penthouses as were required for one mind split ten ways. Life on Lagrange had progressed as ever, though, and soon the sense and sensation of being a part of the fifth had changed. It began to encompass relationships fleeting and lasting. It housed devotion, invited in friendship. It grew beyond the bounds of just this tenth of a clade to include all of Au Lieu Du Rêve, and some few decades on, the whole of the project decamped from their city-block sized apartment building.
+
+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 abutted 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.
+
+Motes had painted it all hundreds of times.
+
+She had painted the prairie, painted the neighborhood, painted those who lived there. She had chosen the colors of many of the houses — had even helped paint some by hand until it had gotten too boring. She had chalked up all of the sidewalks — the sim's designer had made it so that colored chalk lines flower behind her automatically as she walked when she so desired — and she so desired — only to fade some hours later. One could always tell where Motes had come and gone.
+
+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 feet. 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.