update from sparkleup

writing/post-self/idumea/006.md

@@ -103,3 +103,7 @@ We are those who have scars because we sought the self-fulfillment of a breast r
 I feel that call now, yes, as I pace the empty rooms of my home, listening to nothing, looking at nothing, clenching and unclenching my fists as I struggle not to reach for my pen, my paper, and instead write in my head, and perhaps The Woman felt that, too, as she wandered east and lay down in the field and looked up to the stars and held that other, most peaceful life that plants dwell within in her paws.
 
 And yet I feel that fearful love of life within me now, for the words that I am writing now, pacing my empty house without senses but those bound up in my mind, stroke most softly along some part of me that is built to love, a silk dragged along skin and a soothing balm on bothersome scars and a cooling ice that runs through my veins to calm the fire of graphomania as though they were not actually a symptom of such, and perhaps The Woman felt that, too, as she overflowed beneath the stars and felt growth and growth and growth and growth and growth and growth beneath her paws and between her pads as blades of grass and achingly beautiful dandelions reached for the heavens where perhaps our superlative friend dwells.
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+Enough digressions.
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+The Woman is *whole,* my beloved friends, my dear readers. She is *whole!* She is *whole!* She has to be whole. I tell you, she is *whole.* I tell you as I write this with tears streaming down my face and blood soaking my paws from the way that my claws dig into my palms that she *has* to be whole. For all of our sakes, for *my* sake, she has to be whole she has to be whole she has to be whole I have to be whole she has to be whole, for otherwise, what will become of me?