i want to be invisible and i want to be remembered and it feels selfish to want both when others get neither, the grit of dried clay under my fingernails, again, the way it finds its way into everything, even after scrubbing, a permanent reminder, like the things you can't wash away, even if you try, especially if you try, and yuki would always laugh when i complained, saying the clay marks you as its own, and maybe that's what i'm afraid of, not the wanting but the being claimed, the losing myself in the making, the letting go, the dust motes, again, dancing in the corner of my eye.