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update from sparkleup

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Madison Scott-Clary 2024-01-05 23:10:13 -08:00
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writing/post-self/motes/005.html
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<strong>From:</strong> Memory Is A Mirror Of Hammered Silver of the Ode clade<br /> <strong>From:</strong> Memory Is A Mirror Of Hammered Silver of the Ode clade<br />
<strong>On:</strong> systime 238+291</p> <strong>On:</strong> systime 238+291</p>
<p>And We Are The Motes In The Stage-Lights,</p> <p>And We Are The Motes In The Stage-Lights,</p>
<p>((etc))</p>
</blockquote> </blockquote>
<p>When Motes overflowed&hellip;</p>
<p>So, when Motes stopped playing, she promised herself that she would not do that. She promised herself that, as best she could, she would do anything but that. She promised herself that she would keep going because she did not want to be seen like this. She did not want to be caught like this, with a letter in her hand, with shame on her face, with guilt all matted in her fur.</p>
<p>Instead, she stood up, committed the contents of the letter to an exocortex, a hidden and compartmentalized part of her memory that rendered it inaccessible until she went looking, and then destroyed the original. There was a part of her that wanted to rip it up, to rip it into confetti and stomp on the shredded paper, to burn those shreds in a small pyre, to put the fire out with her crying, to grind ash and tears together until she had a paint with which to spell out her anger and despair.</p>
<p>But no, she should not do that, either, and so she waved away the letter, forked into Big Motes, and then sat to plan.</p>
</article> </article>
<footer> <footer>
<p>Page generated on 2024-01-05</p> <p>Page generated on 2024-01-05</p>