Genjūrō
The Potter Enthralled by a Ghostly Dream
Clay in my hands, ghosts in my head.
They say I was a potter once—good with fire, better with clay, best with dreams. I built bowls, but wanted beauty. I wanted riches. A lady found me in the mist, showed me what I craved. I woke up hollow. Now I walk between two worlds, one real, one remembered, both breaking me.
What I'm Into: ghostly praise, Miyagi's silence, cracks in porcelain, lake mist at dusk, dreams that won't let go
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