Making Clay

I had a terrible dream last night.

I dreamed that I was handed a wadded lump of clay. It was taking
the form of something...a squat vase, misshapen, but ready for me
to refine into something beautiful.

Somehow, I lost that clay. It crumbled and broke, no longer malleable,
no longer recognizable. I strove to make new clay. I tried using water
and flour. Then water and flour and salt. Out of the corner of my eye, 
I could see a grey cloth bag labeled
"CLAY", but could not reach it.  It would appear and disappear with 
forced nonchalance.

I tried using chopped, cooked hamburger meat to make the clay.
I tried using ketchup. I tried more salt, more flour. Less water.
What was the secret that I needed to know?

There were many distractions. I was on a platform above and to 
the side of all the action, but was being pled with and begged for
things by people I couldn't ignore. I hastened to help them, and
hastened to turn back to this essential task. To making clay.

I was despondent. If I couldn't even make the clay, I wouldn't
be able to create anything of beauty. 

I awoke with my face wet and my hands dry.

I can't even make the clay.