From 7244ffa747b5d8d7b27a4cd995ce0cbe3d779512 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Madison Scott-Clary Date: Wed, 15 Apr 2020 11:25:07 -0700 Subject: [PATCH] update from sparkleup --- writing/post-self/qoheleth/RJ/014.html | 4 ++-- 1 file changed, 2 insertions(+), 2 deletions(-) diff --git a/writing/post-self/qoheleth/RJ/014.html b/writing/post-self/qoheleth/RJ/014.html index bec9e1388..b57939184 100644 --- a/writing/post-self/qoheleth/RJ/014.html +++ b/writing/post-self/qoheleth/RJ/014.html @@ -46,13 +46,13 @@

And ey dreamt of Sasha. Ey dreamt of everything about her. The subtle scent of dandelions and the too-straight stripes that traveled over her muzzle and head, and then down her back. The equations that drove her tail. Her very voice.

"You seem kind of frozen, kind of stuck, in a few ways," she said.

She was all there. All of her avatar. What ey remembered of their final conversation could be played out from start to finish between skunk and fox in perfect detail. Detail that could not be anything other than perfect. Detail that had to be perfect because eir exo had cached the skunk's av, just as it had cached eir flat and the Crown Pub.

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But she was not all there. She was not there at all. Her avatar was a hollow shell that AwDae could make parrot her lines. It was a puppet. It was a sensory representation without context. AwDae was in a hall of mirrors that allowed no one else but emself. She was not there and she could not be there because AwDae was lost, and when one is lost, one is alone in a way more fundamental than could be imagined in any solipsist's dream.

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But she was not all there. She was not there at all. Her avatar was a hollow shell that AwDae could make parrot her lines. It was a puppet. It was a sensory representation without context. AwDae was in a hall of mirrors that allowed no one else but emself. She was not there and she could not be there because AwDae was lost, and when one is lost, one is alone in ways more fundamental than could be dreamt of in any solipsist's philosophy.

What lives we lead we lead in memory, and the end of memory lies beneath the roots.

Ey could not forget, for memory ends at the teeth of death and is wholly inaccessible to the living, because the living know that they will die, but the dead know nothing.

And ey could not cry thus immersed.