update from sparkleup

writing/3/terrifying/blind-strife.md

@@ -14,9 +14,11 @@ I ought to, yes? I ought to be able to be seen. I deserve to validated. I want t
 
 More, I need it on a more practical level. If I am to be a writer, then surely I need that recognition in order to live. I must market myself. I must prove that what I write is worth reading.
 
-Of late, I finished a series of books, the Post-Self cycle. In the books, characters can create copies of themselves with vanishing ease, and those copies are free to go on and live their own lives, facing divergence, leaning into individuation as though it were a quotidian joy. Then, if they so choose, they may merge back down with the instance from which they were spawned, and with them, all of their memories may go with.
+I take my dreams, my idle musings, and I wrap them up in pretty cloth and set them down on the page. I dream of growing old, and of hyperfixation. I dream of an expansion of self, of what it must feel like to undergo some sort of duplication, change, following each to their logical end as they arise. 
 
-> *All artists search. I search for stories, in this post-self age. What happens when you can no longer call yourself an individual, when you have split your sense of self among several instances? How do you react? Do you withdraw into yourself, become a hermit? Do you expand until you lose all sense of identity? Do you fragment? Do you go about it deliberately, or do you let nature and chance take their course?* \footnote{\cite[164]{qoheleth}; — The character speaking, Dear, Also, The Tree That Was Felled, speaks in italics, which has been preserved here. I do not make the rules, I simply foist them upon the reader.}
+In the Post-Self books, characters can create copies of themselves with vanishing ease, and those copies are free to go on and live their own lives, facing divergence, leaning into individuation as though it were a quotidian joy. Then, if they so choose, they may merge back down with the instance from which they were spawned, and with them, all of their memories may go with.
+
+> *All artists search. I search for stories, in this post-self age. What happens when you can no longer call yourself an individual, when you have split your sense of self among several instances? How do you react? Do you withdraw into yourself, become a hermit? Do you expand until you lose all sense of identity? Do you fragment? Do you go about it deliberately, or do you let nature and chance take their course?* \footnote{\cite[164]{qoheleth}. The character speaking, Dear, Also, The Tree That Was Felled, speaks in italics, which has been preserved here. I do not make the rules, I simply foist them upon the reader.}
 
 Who, then, has this merged instance become? Are they who they were? And yet, so much of identity is formed from the experiences we have, the memories that we form. Are they not also that ephemeral up-tree instance? Some mix of the two? And how much? Half and half? The down-tree instance may keep only a portion of the memories, rather than merging them all wholesale; how does that change things? There may be conflicting memories, where identity rankles; when these are reconciled, does that affect identity more or less?
 

writing/3/terrifying/index.md

@@ -1,6 +1,6 @@
 %title The Margin of the Terrifying
 
-Wherein Maddy worries about how much space she's allowed to take up and also waxes rhapsodic about how love is right at the margin of the terrifying through the lens of Time War and also Rilke. It's also kinda about suicide???
+Wherein Maddy worries about how much space she's allowed to take up and also waxes rhapsodic about how love is right at the margin of the terrifying through the lens of Time War and also Rilke. It's also kinda about <s>suicide</s> plurality???
 
 * [.] [Intro](intro)
 * [.] [Blind strife](blind-strife)