<p>She plays in paint and color. She paints the backdrops for the productions. She paints the props that sit on the stage or rest in the actors’ hands. She paints the stage itself, the matte black of so many past productions long abandoned. She paints her nails, her claws, herself. She gets it on her fur. She gets it on her clothes. She gets polka-dots on her nose and stripes over her ears. She paints her dreams, those serene and idyllic landscapes interrupted by hyperblack squares, unnerving holes in the world that depict a nothing-ness, a missing-ness, a not-there-ness that slides easily between the border of absurd and unnerving. She paints the holes in the world that she dreams about, afraid to touch and yet which will not stop touching her mind in turn.</p>
<p>She plays in her free time, such as it is — after all, her work, such as it is, is a joy beyond joys, but everything is a sometimes food. She plays hide-and-seek in the auditorium. She plays tag with the performers and techs. She plays horses and kitties and mousies. She plays pretend. She plays with Warmth In Fire, endless forks dotting Serene’s countless landscapes, leapfrogging each other over fields and between tries, bouncing off the walls of canyons, colliding with force enough to knock them spinning and send them dizzy. She hunts down her friends and plays hide-and-seek, yes, and tag and horses and kitties and mousies. She hunts down What Gifts and plays puzzle games and rhythm games and stealth games and real life platformers and turn-based sims that lock her in place when it is not her turn.</p>
<p>She plays with her form. She plays with her fur. She plays with her mane. She plays with her claws and with her tail. She plays with her size. She plays with her age. She plays when she is twenty. She plays when she is twelve. She plays when she is five. She plays always when she is as old as the rest of her clade — what is it, now? 275? 276? She plays with identity. </p>
<p>She plays with life, enjoying and enjoying and enjoying. </p>
<p>She plays with death. She has died countless times, to knives, to falls, to drowning, to games, to those who say they love her, to those who say they hate her.</p>
<p>Motes is a kid because she plays. She is a kid because kids are resilient. She is a kid because kids bounce, because they fall, cry, and then pick themselves up once more and go back to playing. She is a kid because she likes being small. She is a kid because she likes it when others play, too, she likes when others fall into enjoyment and laugh along with her. She likes the way that it bring out the best in those in her life. She is a kid because a life would not truly be complete without kids, and she believes with all of her heart that life should be complete.</p>
