Clay, clay everywhere, even in my hair. It sticks, it stains my hands.
Cold and hard when I pull a handful out of the bag.
Unnoticed warmed by my hands during an extensive massage, making it flexible and soft.
It folds and it breaks, yet it is hard to shape. Rough, but slick.
Silky-smooth with water, but slippery as soap.
So many types, some strong and rough, but as soon as it is made into a thin layer, they rip and collapse. Others without any stones or sand in them, smooth and soft. So weak, and so thin, yet so beautiful.
It dries and rips, and with no amount of water it is turned to normal again.
Just like my hands, dry as paper, showing grooves and lines.
Shapes that only exist in my hand, but collapse as soon as my grip changes, but when still a strong lump, not accepting my fingers, entering with all their might.
After two hours, all I have is clay.
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