diff --git a/writing/post-self/idumea/005.md b/writing/post-self/idumea/005.md
index 5d1dccd3..1bb0ee7b 100644
--- a/writing/post-self/idumea/005.md
+++ b/writing/post-self/idumea/005.md
@@ -143,4 +143,4 @@ She shrugged. "It was a step on a path. I have also sought out entertainment in
 
 "There were no lyrics to this album, though, so it was not the words that made me cry. I was not listening to words, but I *was* listening to voices. I was listening to the voices of her up-tree, Beholden To The Music Of The Spheres, and her partner's up tree, A Finger Curled. She had delved into her sample library and pulled together all of the clips that she had recorded of those two and built about an hour's worth of music out of them. A Finger Curled, who was lost in the Attack, and Beholden To The Music Of The Spheres, who quit out of despair one week later. It was her threnody. It was her wailing song."
 
-Readers, I am not ashamed to say that I cried again. How could I not, after all? 
+Readers, I am not ashamed to say that I cried again. How could I not, after all? I had met Beckoning and Muse, before, myself. They had invited me over some few years before the Century Attack to let me research their gardens. They had fed me a dinner of pasta with zucchini, and a desert of zucchini bread, for their harvest was too large by far. We had sat out on the deck and looked out over the grass and the little raised beds that Beckoning had tended for a century or more and, although my paws itched to return home to write, we spoke until long after the sunset on our joys and sorrows, our hopes and fears.