The silence when the wheel stops, not the mechanical hum dying down but the quiet inside my own head when the clay is finally centered and still, that's the sound of possibility isn't it, before the shaping starts, before the intention takes over, just the pure potential of formless earth. and the smell of it too, that damp richness that gets under your fingernails and reminds you where everything comes from. lost those hours and it was like i was breathing underwater; the clay becomes more real than the air, the spinning a rhythm you feel more than hear, i wish you could live there always, though maybe the point is to bring something back from there, not stay.