"Carey" blared from the tired radio in the corner of the dusty room. The worn coffee cans full of tools caught the small blade of sun that danced through the particles suspended in the air. Pieces in all different states of completion monopolize any free surface. The flax colored strands slipped lose again and the ribbon of hair kissed a clay smudged cheek. She leaned her weight into the wheel. The lump yielded, took some initial form. It could go anywhere now. What did she want? In the middle of a Joni Mitchell mood, her heart was both broken and complete. As she impressed a base and built up the sides, she felt as undefined as the mud in her hands.
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