The wheel spins freely, the potter unknown. Spinning all the stars out into their place, the earth into its present state, all these days and all these nights. Spinning, this life round its circle. Figures rising and falling upon the table. Its substance contained within all things, under every stone left unturned. Its center is found in every direction.
Long ago, some of its figures walked by, stumbling, drunk on ideas, as they fell, crashing upon the wheel. Its axis tilted, as some of its clay was flung far into the heavens, where no one could see, left to dry upon the highest shelf, where no one could ever reach it.
– Josh Fleming
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