Mud, All of It

The mud volcanoes of Gobustan burp cold grey clay out of the planet with total disregard for dignity, and it turns out mine matched. There was nobody on the crater plateau, the mud was the temperature of a reasonable bath, and a researcher of some seriousness took off everything and sat down in the material itself, coated to the hairline, a clay figure with my posture. The earth muttered underneath like a sleeper. I dried into sculpture walking back and negotiated with a bucket for an hour. Full commitment to the source. No footnote needed.