update from sparkleup

writing/index.md

@@ -14,7 +14,7 @@
 
 * [.] [Saint, Heresiarch](saint) (Medieval anthology)
 * [.] [Marsh](post-self/marsh/index)
-* [ ] [Motes Plays (WT)](post-self/motes/index)
+* [.] [Motes Played (WT)](post-self/motes/index)
 
 ## MFA
 

writing/post-self/marsh/013.md

@@ -18,7 +18,19 @@ I stood awkwardly by until Cress chuckled and gestured at the open space beside
 
 "Right," I said, forcing a chuckle of my own as I awkwardly clambered up onto the bed, leaning against the headboard and hugging my knees against my chest.
 
-We sat in silence for a while other than the occasional small noise of contentment from Dry Grass.
+We sat — or lay — in silence for a while other than the occasional small noise of contentment from Dry Grass.
+
+Even as we stayed in silence, and Cress and Tule doted on their partner, this woman I had such strong feelings about foisted upon me out of nowhere only a few days prior, I struggled to disentangle my thoughts on the events of the day.
+
+The longer I thought about it, the more surreal the act of having a funeral in the midst of such a disaster felt. Our gathering of nine people standing around an all-but-featureless black orb somewhere in a grid of yet more featureless black orbs was small. Nine people had stood around that core dump: six cocladists, two partners, and a systech who also happened to be a partner of two of those cocladists.
+
+It was so small, and yet even if there had been a hundred people there, a thousand, it would have felt vanishingly tiny in that vast, open space. 23 billion orbs set into a grid, and this one was ours, our double handful of grief.
+
+It was so small, and that vast, open space remained silent, empty. The settings on the sim were such that we would only ever see or hear ourselves in there. There might well be billions of others struggling with their own double handfuls of grief, and yet it would only ever be us.
+
+There was more grief to be felt there, layered beneath the exhaustion, confusion, responsibility, and however many more complex emotions had been caked on top. There would come a time when the ability to simply grieve would be laid bare, I knew, and soon, but it was not yet.
+
+And so we stayed in silence.
 
 ...
 

writing/post-self/motes/001.md

@@ -80,7 +80,7 @@ She laughed, tilting her head and taking a lapping sip of her drink. "Maybe! May
 
 Motes cozied right in. "Mmhm. Not tired, just lazy."
 
-"Flop away," A Finger Pointing said fondly. "Who do you think you will ask."
+"Flop away," A Finger Pointing said fondly. "Who do you think you will ask?"
 
 She shrugged. "Beckoning and Muse. Slow Hours, maybe? Dry Grass? I think Warmth is feeling a bit fussy."
 
@@ -88,7 +88,7 @@ She shrugged. "Beckoning and Muse. Slow Hours, maybe? Dry Grass? I think Warmth
 
 "Am not!"
 
-"No, Beholden is right," A Finger Pointing said. "Why is Warmth In Fire feeling fussy?"
+"No, no. Beholden is right. You are absolutely a fusspot," A Finger Pointing said. "Why is Warmth In Fire feeling fussy?"
 
 "I do not know. Usually that happens when ey gets a letter from one of the Dear-cules."