the pottery wheel is still. silence is still. almost afraid to breathe. if i breathe maybe the quiet will shatter, maybe something will break in the fragile half-formed thing, the thing that almost exists, the thing that isn't the old shape but also isn't anything new yet. like a breath held too long, everything aches and waits, but waiting is different now maybe it's just waiting. not waiting FOR something. just…waiting, just BEING in the quiet. afraid to look too closely, afraid to ask. afraid of the shattering.