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update from sparkleup

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Madison Scott-Clary 2024-01-15 20:45:13 -08:00
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writing/post-self/motes/001.html
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<p>Bristling, Motes glared over at Dry Grass. &ldquo;It is all well and good that she not like me, but to not like my family is bullcrap.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Dry Grass nodded, expression serious. &ldquo;It absolutely is. She has gotten quite upset at me a few times, but I just smile and nod and tune her out when she goes into her self-righteous spirals. I am not the type to cut anyone out of my life, for better or worse, but I will absolutely ignore people.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Motes huffed, nodded. &ldquo;Good. If you stop talking to me, I <em>will</em> cry.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Perish the thought!&rdquo; The Odist laughed and leaned over to hug her cocladist, careful of her nails. &ldquo;I will not. Do not worry, my dear, you are stuck with me for a good while yet.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Perish the thought!&rdquo; The Odist laughed and leaned over to hug her cocladist, careful of her nails. &ldquo;I will not. Do not worry, my dear, you are stuck with me for a good while yet. I would rather tell Hammered Silver to go fuck herself.&rdquo;</p>
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<p>Page generated on 2024-01-15</p>

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writing/post-self/motes/007.html
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<p>A note here: <em>Surely The Only Constant can find some less dramatic way to depict death on stage; has ey no thought for how that might reflect on the rest of us as so public a clade?</em></p>
<p>A message there: <em>Beholden To The Flow Of The Crowds was seen punching someone at The Party. I would ask that you inform her of our standards of behavior.</em></p>
<p>It became something of a joke — granted, mostly to herself, for she rarely shared any of these messages with others. Even True Name thought less of optics than Hammered Silver. Even the politician! These notes began to feel like letters to the editor for some small-town newspaper: semi-public complaints about propriety that left a sour whiff of entitlement in the air behind them.</p>
<p>And yet their apparent friendship continued. Somehow, against all odds, they continued to meet weekly for years, for decades. They would find some dainty cafe in an equally dainty neighborhood in the middle of some enormous city serving wine and sandwiches on baguettes. They would find some twee farm stand in the middle of millions of acres of carefully curated land serving the best fucking salad either of them had ever tasted
((the past: Motes))</p>
<p>And yet their apparent friendship continued. Somehow, against all odds, they continued to meet weekly for years, for decades. They would find some dainty cafe in an equally dainty neighborhood in the middle of some enormous city serving wine and sandwiches on baguettes. They would find some twee farm stand in the middle of millions of acres of carefully curated land serving the best fucking salad either of them had ever tasted. They would stand in the middle of nowhere, some flat plane of an unfinished sim with a single, incredibly detailed tree right in the &lsquo;middle&rsquo; of all that nothing, with lunches they packed for the occasion.</p>
<p>They would meet up and they would talk, and A Finger Pointing would swallow enough of her frustration with the letters to maintain this friendship without compromising her morals.</p>
<p>((the past: Motes))</p>
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<p>((bitterness and compromises with Dry Grass))</p>
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