Look down the street. there's no light. it's the middle of the night. you're in a foreign place, and you've lost your way. there's a struggle for life with these hands and their strife. much like the potter's while he molds his clay.
He's been working for days. he's been slaving away; trying not to lose sight of what he's been living for. he just can't get it right. he lies awake every night while tears stream down his cheeks.
I can see the rain coming from the distance. i can feel his pain and it hurts like hell. why cant we find peace while we wait? it's patience we need to get through this day.