the silence isn't empty, it's just full of things we haven't named yet, things humming beneath the surface the glaze hides, the way the kiln hums for hours after it’s turned off, hot enough to burn but quiet enough to forget if you’re not paying attention, is that what we're all afraid of, not the burning, but the forgetting, because what’s left unsaid starts to shape you, like clay left too long on the wheel, warped and unusable, the truth always finds a way out but the way it comes after being held is always a violence, a smash, a shard underfoot, better to let it form in the hands, let it breathe.