update from sparkleup

writing/post-self/motes/005.html

@@ -20,7 +20,7 @@
 <p>She stopped playing and, with a shaky paw still seeping blood from skinned pads, she opened the envelope.</p>
 <p>She stopped playing and read:</p>
 <blockquote>
-<p><strong>To:</strong> And We Are The Motes In The Stage-Lights of the Ode clade (EYES-ONLY) 
+<p><strong>To:</strong> And We Are The Motes In The Stage-Lights of the Ode clade <strong>(EYES-ONLY)</strong> <br />
 <strong>From:</strong> Memory Is A Mirror Of Hammered Silver of the Ode clade<br />
 <strong>On:</strong> systime 238+291</p>
 <p>And We Are The Motes In The Stage-Lights,</p>
@@ -49,7 +49,6 @@
 </blockquote>
 <p>— Memory Is A Mirror Of Hammered Silver of the Ode clade</p>
 </blockquote>
-<p>===</p>
 <p>When Motes overflowed, she cut herself off from play. She froze where she was. She went nonverbal, became all but catatonic. It would last days. She would disappear from the world and she would stop playing, and if she stopped playing, she would no longer be herself.</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>