the grit of the clay, even after i wash, the way it lingers under my nails, a reminder, i think, of the hours, no, not the hours, the losing of them, the dissolving, is that what i'm chasing, the disappearance, and the wheel spins and the clay centers but it's not the clay i'm centering, it's myself, i'm trying to center myself in the chaos, in the wanting to be seen and not seen, in the ache in my shoulders from holding myself too tight, yuki would say breathe, she would say feel the clay, not think about it, but the thinking is part of the feeling, isn't it, the wanting, the needing, the being afraid to let go, the dust motes, again, dancing in the light from the window, and i am trying, i am really trying, to just be still, but still isn't the word, is it, settled, maybe, but not still, the wheel is always turning, even when i'm not there, isn't it