The wood turns on the lathe, much too fast to see anything save a hint of the shape, hiding inside. It’s a delicate dance, placing a piece of sharpened and hardened steel against that spinning form.  The hum of the motor, the light catching the rising dust motes, and the background music, all fade as the wood begins to chip away.  The form, at first rough, and then smoother, and smoother, the chips turning at last into long, friction warmed streamers.  They cover my hand with that warmth.  Piling up and up, cascading over onto the lathe, and then down to the floor. 



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