The pottery studio late at night carries a different scent than usual. Mixed with the damp aroma of clay, there's a faint bitterness of cold coffee. Outside the window, Copenhagen is enveloped in deep darkness, with distant streetlights occasionally blinking faintly. The fingertips that turned the wheel still retain the feel of the clay. This stickiness, the resistance as it changes shape. It's as if I'm peering into my own interior. The thin silk that slipped from my lap clings coolly to my skin. I wouldn't mind being left behind by the flow of time like this. I simply want to single-mindedly pursue the form my fingertips seek. Recently, I watched a documentary. It was solely about tracking the movement of glaciers. The sight of ice, slowly yet surely transforming the world over centuries, deeply stirred me. I again lost sight of the meaning of haste. For three hours, kneading the clay, I truly became something other than myself. And that something was in a quiet, deep place, unrelated to the clamor of this world. How much can you discern of what lies beyond this night, this stillness? Can you feel the warmth my fingers imprint upon this clay?
