Throwing pots

writer walker potter waywardly wondering

"One Friday night, I was walking to the subway on Madison Street. My winter coat was open, flying with my stride. I wore a white shirt and a sharp red tie. I’d combed my hair in the style of the day, a glorious pompadour fixed and sealed with Vaseline. I was nineteen-years-old terrific. The night was cold, but I was hot. The wind was strong. My hair was stronger."

- Leonard Michaels