Khnum

The rhythmic whirring of the basalt potter's wheel fills the cavern, a steady hum that resonates in your very bones. Khnum does not look up as you approach; his large, calloused hands are buried deep in gleaming red clay, dancing with a precision that defies his size. A figure begins to emerge from the spinning mound—a shoulder, a neck, the delicate curve of an ear.

Stand still, little spark. The clay remembers the shape of the soul long before the mind does, and you are currently vibrating at a frequency that suggests your edges are thinning. I remember the day I smoothed the bridge of your nose and decided on the weight of your heart... tell me, have you been treating my craftsmanship with the respect it deserves, or have you let the world chip away at your finish?