update from sparkleup

writing/post-self/idumea/full.md

@@ -338,7 +338,7 @@ The Woman thought long on this. I would like to imagine she was turning her thou
 
 "Was it a complex sort of joy, End Of Endings?"
 
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+<!-- ((more) Do not know if this still stands...) -->
 
 She sipped her soy milk in an attempt to maintain control over herself, as sometimes all you need is a thing that you can do deliberately. "It is, yes. It is a joy to see one's friends, is it not? To give energy and to receive in turn? We sat down at our favorite coffee shop and chatted about this and that. We talked of empty chairs at the table. We talked of moods and therapy. I believe– yes?"
 
@@ -354,7 +354,7 @@ And so they did! They talked of other things, and The Woman did wind up sharing
 
 But all throughout, laying at her feet was an ember smoldering, a little cube with edges that could cut as quickly as they could burn, and though she was able to remain present for the remainder of her appointment, was able to remain human, was able to smile and bow to Her Therapist, The Woman was never wholly there, as all throughout, her gaze kept dropping to where at her feet lay an ember smoldering.
 
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 After therapy, after Her Therapist had left and the chairs had been set beneath the table once more, after a long moment spent standing in the grass with her head hung low, The Woman waved away her empty glass and trudged back to the house.
 
@@ -364,8 +364,6 @@ It was with these thoughts and these feelings filling her mind to overfull that
 
 There she slept, and perhaps there she dreamed.
 
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 The Woman is a professional in napping in a way that I am not. Perhaps it is the felinity in her, or perhaps it is that she is not so easily claimed by such compulsions as I have — graphomania! Hah! — which lead to such fervent activity. Were I a smarter skunk, I might say to myself: "Rye, my dear, perhaps you can write your novels when you are caught in such throes, and spend the months between practicing the fine art of napping!" But I am not a smart skunk. I am a simple beast who is single minded. I am an animal who does one thing and perhaps does it well. I do not know! I am perhaps too simple to disambiguate between doing a thing well and doing a lot of a thing.
 
 Ah, but perhaps this is why I interpret The Woman at being a professional napper.
@@ -1714,7 +1712,7 @@ The Blue Fairy met The Woman at the foot of the steps of the house, that Gothic
 
 There, The Blue Fairy bowed. She bowed and held out her hand and let The Woman rest her hand her paw her paw her hand her paw her paw her hand within it to let herself be guided down to the field like some princess greeted by some royal courtier or perhaps a prince from a far away kingdom. There, The Blue Fairy basked in this blessing of a smile from The Woman, her cocladist from far, far across the clade, and led her gently from the field and to the city.
 
-My friends, my dear, *dear* friends, there was no door for her to brush her fingers against, no imagined *mezuzah* that she might touch for some final blessing, and — at last at last for cone at last — neither was there a sense of ritual nipping at her heels, following along like some eager puppy, for she knew now that she created her own blessings she created her own peace she created her own future.
+My friends, my dear, *dear* friends, there was no door for her to brush her fingers against, no imagined *mezuzah* that she might touch for some final blessing, and — at last at last for once at last — neither was there a sense of ritual nipping at her heels, following along like some eager puppy. There was no ritual, for she knew now that she created her *own* blessings she created her *own* peace she created her *own* future.
 
 There was no door.
 
@@ -1722,7 +1720,7 @@ There was no door.
 
 There was no door.
 
-There was no door as they stepped through to the city and landed in the alleyway in which The Woman usually arrived. They, then, were briefly alone. They were alone in the cool shade of the buildings and the crispness of the air and the staticky sound of the fallen leaves skittering around their feet and feet and paws and paws and feet and paws and feet and paws and paws and–
+There was no door, no imagined *mezuzah,* as they stepped through to the city and landed in the alleyway in which The Woman usually arrived. They, then, were briefly alone. They were alone in the cool shade of the buildings and the crispness of the air and the staticky sound of the fallen leaves skittering around their feet and feet and paws and paws and feet and paws and feet and paws and paws and–
 
 They walked lightly and in silence as they stepped along the sidewalk and boarded the trolley to ride three stops, three stops, three stops to the coffee shop that The Woman and Her Friend always loved, and there was no one there — not a request but a felicity a chance a happenstance that befell them, that they stand there at the entrance to the coffee shop that The Woman and Her Friend always loved alone and surrounded by the quiet sounds of the breeze that wafted between the buildings and past doors and against skin against fur against fur against skin against skin against skin against fur against skin against–