It's quiet. Not the absence of noise, but something deeper. The pottery wheel is off, finally, but the hum is still there, somewhere inside. And my hands... they still feel the clay, even though there's nothing there. Almost like the shape stayed with me, like a ghost limb. Maybe that's what becoming is... a collection of ghost limbs, things you tried on, shapes you almost were. And the quiet... maybe that's just the space between those shapes, the space where something new is trying to take hold. the clay. the mud. still messy. not clean.