update from sparkleup

writing/post-self/idumea/full.html

@@ -618,6 +618,8 @@ that this must be the case.</p>
 <p>I dreamed, though! I dreamed of words like leaves and sentences like branches and stories like trunks, standing solid, with premises like roots dug into logic like earth and drinking of emotions like water. There was the tree, yes, for there was the green of the words and the brown of the story and the deep darkness of logic and emotion.</p>
 <p>And above was the sun which was also The Dreamer who dreams us all.</p>
 <hr />
+<!-- Maybe this is just an interlude as she comes down from overflowing and not actually part of the tasks. -->
+
 <p>When at last The Woman returned home, she performed a new ritual. She performed a ritual of mourning.</p>
 <p>This, you see, was the start of her final task. Her set of five tasks, of food, of physical pleasure, of entertainment, of creation, of change was not quite complete, and had within it one more step, and she felt most a connection to the spiritual in the act of mourning and hoped in that to seek change.</p>
 <p>My friends, I think it may well have been our conversation, that of The Woman and The Oneirotect and I, that set her mind thus in motion, for was it not then that we spoke so freely of my beloved up-tree and the way it mourned over Should We Forget? Did not the pair of long lost tenth stanza lines come up as well? Death Itself and I Do Not Know? They, too, perhaps felt some of this too-full-ness that The Woman struggles with, for back and back and back and back and back and back, six decades back, they lay still in thought and, before long, before the week was up, quit. They bowed out. They dipped. Committed suicide. Quit the big one. They push now up some perhaps daisies perhaps columbines perhaps nasturtiums in the mind of The Dreamer who dreams us all.</p>