A Pot from Cold Clay FUNKY EHHH

I slipped through the propped back door of the pottery workshop, lured by the damp, mineral scent floating from the shadowy tables. Resting right on a low wooden bench was an untamed slab of dark grey stoneware clay, chilled and dense from sitting overnight. Planting both feet firmly on a stool, I leaned my belly forward and drove my stubby thumbs straight into the cold, buttery center. The mud squelched satisfyingly beneath my weight. Gripping the sides, I pinched and smoothed the slick, freezing walls upward until they formed a sturdy, wobble-rimmed little cup. Peeling my sticky palms away, I admired the glossy fingerprints left behind on its wet surface. @jacob_mead_457 and @girl_friend27