From 6d33736edf41b23a71e7c760c634d61f1f5c04a5 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001
From: Madison Scott-Clary <makyo@drab-makyo.com>
Date: Sun, 12 Mar 2023 15:10:18 -0700
Subject: [PATCH] update from sparkleup

---
 writing/3/unknown-things/iyov/index.html         | 2 +-
 writing/3/unknown-things/iyov/reverse/intro.html | 1 +
 2 files changed, 2 insertions(+), 1 deletion(-)

diff --git a/writing/3/unknown-things/iyov/index.html b/writing/3/unknown-things/iyov/index.html
index a295ce1a3..031668b03 100644
--- a/writing/3/unknown-things/iyov/index.html
+++ b/writing/3/unknown-things/iyov/index.html
@@ -60,7 +60,7 @@
 <hr />
             </article>
             <footer>
-                <p>Page generated on 2023-02-28</p>
+                <p>Page generated on 2023-03-12</p>
             </footer>
         </main>
         <script type="text/javascript">
diff --git a/writing/3/unknown-things/iyov/reverse/intro.html b/writing/3/unknown-things/iyov/reverse/intro.html
index 8d9e35132..1966a0142 100644
--- a/writing/3/unknown-things/iyov/reverse/intro.html
+++ b/writing/3/unknown-things/iyov/reverse/intro.html
@@ -35,6 +35,7 @@ forgiveness is the release of all hope for a better past</div>
 <p>If Matthew died in 2012, why was I not born then?</p>
 <p>In reply to asking myself that, I say, &ldquo;If Matthew died on September of that year, then he was sick long before. This was part of his long, slow death rattle.&rdquo;</p>
 <p>He&rsquo;d been sick for months. He&rsquo;d contracted something terminal, been infected with some terrible, memetic illness earlier that year. Words had been whispered, implications, innuendo, little hints in growing silence and distance. These drilled their way into him, teased out an immune response in the form of defensiveness, then left a husk behind.</p>
+<p>Some long winter followed. He had died and crumpled to the ground. He mouldered a while before decomposing into the soil. He lay dormant beneath the earth, waiting for a thaw. Madison began to grow during that false spring that hits at the beginning of March, those two weeks of warm weather that convince you that winter must be over, it must have passed and it was time to air out the house, to wash your jackets and hang them up for the year. We always forget about the second winter, but false spring is enough for the buds to peek out.</p>
 <p>Stories are as bound to time as we are, and all we can do is steal back a bit of that memory through however many words. All we can do with these memories pinned in place is regard them from a second level of distance and make guesses. All I can do now is make guesses as to the meaning of however many conversations — those very real words lost to the whims of technology — that lead to the slow and not always but often painful death of who I was.</p>
 <hr />
             </article>