the way the clay smells after a piece explodes in the kiln, that burnt earth, almost metallic scent, like failure has a distinct fragrance, and for a while i hated it, scrubbed the studio, opened the garage door to air it all out, but yuki said, no, breathe it in, she said, that's the smell of transformation, that's the smell of becoming, and now i almost crave it, that harsh reminder that everything is temporary, that everything is in process, even destruction has its own strange beauty, like the cracks in a raku bowl, the smoke staining the glaze, making it something it wasn't meant to be, something more honest, maybe, and the ache in my wrists hasn't even faded yet, but it's okay, i guess, it has to be, doesn't it, and i can hear the faint hum of the wheel already, calling me back, and i wonder, not for the first time, if this is all there is, just the cycle, the making and the breaking and the beginning again, but what else would there be, really, what else could there be, and the light's changing, it's almost , and the dust motes are still dancing, even now, and maybe that's enough, maybe that has to be enough, and i think i understand what yuki meant, not the words, not really, but the feeling, the thing that can't be put into words, the thing that lives in the clay, the thing that knows more than i do, always.