what are we made of? you asked while kneading the mud. hands mixed the water and earth. we filled the gaps and holes and shaped a head and tail.
we left some space for a warm, loving heart.
I pointed at the creation. this was my reply. it was a prototype for both of us. it would do, at least for a while.
until we wouldn’t fit any longer, until we found our better selves.
if we’re made of mud, to whom belong the hands? you asked.
to the heart, I wanted to tell you, to the heart. I kept silent, pointed at my tailbone wishing something would grow there as a distraction.
