Clay paste for earth. Add water, add fire, leave a space for air.
Every piece of porcelain has a soul. This is a necessity.
The end will come in fire, when everything crashes together in heat and agony, when the bones of the universe are too frail to hold its weight. Porcelain souls know this will be, but they live regardless. In defiance.
The potters weep when they plunge porcelain body into fire. Porcelain accepts the pain as a purification of sorts, and it comes out pale, brittle, and strong.
You can’t burn twice, they say, if you ask them.
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