Slight Grit

Yesterday when I returned to my corner of the mountain my knees smelled like windex and there were ketchup stains on my pencil skirt and my bed had around it an odor of moldy tobacco and vagabond man. I washed all of my bedding.

It is within these hours, when I return to the molded, the changeable, the soft and supple and vibrant, that I feel alive. I threw two mugs on the wheel, and although I was feverish, the mugs were true in form and full of the spark of life.


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