From 5c9953c2f219689bb30c6388fb2387f2792e7a4e Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001
From: Madison Rye Progress <makyo@drab-makyo.com>
Date: Sat, 26 Oct 2024 14:59:27 -0700
Subject: [PATCH] update from sparkleup

---
 writing/post-self/index.html      | 3 ++-
 writing/post-self/time-story.html | 4 ++++
 2 files changed, 6 insertions(+), 1 deletion(-)

diff --git a/writing/post-self/index.html b/writing/post-self/index.html
index 075a8757c..d1fa537a7 100644
--- a/writing/post-self/index.html
+++ b/writing/post-self/index.html
@@ -65,6 +65,7 @@
 <li class="done4"> RP letter: <a href="rp/from-zacharias.html">From Zacharias to True Name</a></li>
 <li class="done4"> Monologue: <a href="100-7ths.html">One hundred sevenths</a></li>
 <li class="done4"> Rift story: <a href="scientist-subject.html">Scientist, Subject</a></li>
+<li class="done0"> Drabble: <a href="time-story.html">Time Is a Story I Tell Myself</a></li>
 </ul>
 <h2 id="epigraphs">Epigraphs</h2>
 <div class="codehilite"><pre><span></span><code><span class="w">  </span><span class="o">\</span><span class="n">begin</span><span class="p">{</span><span class="n">flushright</span><span class="p">}</span>
@@ -189,7 +190,7 @@
 </dl>
             </article>
             <footer>
-                <p>Page generated on 2024-10-06</p>
+                <p>Page generated on 2024-10-26</p>
             </footer>
         </main>
         <script type="text/javascript">
diff --git a/writing/post-self/time-story.html b/writing/post-self/time-story.html
index a66af60f0..0e0d808d9 100644
--- a/writing/post-self/time-story.html
+++ b/writing/post-self/time-story.html
@@ -17,6 +17,10 @@
 <p>But a life? What is a life, anymore? Three centuries and no sign of quitting, and a lifetime seems to have lost meaning. Perhaps someday my life will end, and I will have left behind a finite oeuvre. Perhaps I will simply decide that I have had enough and draw a line across the end of the page and, however many bookshelves of story are left behind shall be all that ever was.</p>
 <p>Not yet, though. Not this year, I suspect not this decade, and I hope not even this century.</p>
 <p>I have joys to counter all of my sorrows. My head is, yes, in the clouds, but my feet remain firmly planted on the ground. My arms are full of the love of life. My home makes room for those I see as my family. Our lawns are for picnics and our beds are for dreams.</p>
+<p>And so I sit in my office and write my stories. I sit on the couch and dream them up in my head. I cook with my beloved up-tree and watch em and Motes play in the grass while building my ballads after our picnics. I host my joys and languish in my sorrows, and I fall apart into distortion when I overflow. Cuckoo for Cocoa-Puffs, Warmth In Fire calls me, and we laugh together.</p>
+<p>Time is a story I tell myself and this is nothing special. Time is a story <em>we</em> tell <em>ourselves.</em> Time is a story that Michelle who was Sasha told herself, and her ending was one of — I hope — joy. Time is a story that Qoheleth told himself and his ending was one of — would that it were not — agony. Time is a story that The Woman told herself and her ending was&hellip;</p>
+<p>Was it? Was hers an ending?</p>
+<p>That is her own joy. That is her story. Her story is one of ambiguities and unanswered questions. Her ending is a question mark and a faint smile.</p>
             </article>
             <footer>
                 <p>Page generated on 2024-10-26</p>