I slip the tiny key into the lock: twist, unlatch and open. My heart expands and starts to pound. Intense emotion begins circulating through my body. My legs wobble as I reach into my locker and grab the twenty-five pound bag of clay. Heavy but bearable, I haul the block to the studio like a ship carries its anchor. The endless possibilities in this moment flash through my muscles. My hands begin to anticipate forms and manipulations. My breath becomes rapid as I slice off chunks from this solid lump of earth. I squeeze a lump into a phallic shape and dip it into warm water. My right hand, wet and curled, caresses the clay downward. I rotate my wrist and stroke again. It begins to move, following the action of my hand and grows longer. The slippery clay stretches out like a serpent’s tongue. My fingers respond to the plasticity of the material. I begin to feel awake in ways that I do not have words for. I grasp the top of the clay and with slight pressure impress my knuckle. I slide my knuckle the length of the line and release at the tip. With a pinch, I snip and stick it to the table where it hangs limp to dry and wait for me to shape it into its final form. I wipe my hands on the dusty towel, grab the next chunk of clay and begin squeezing life again.

from http://www.ethanhamby.com/hearing-handles.html

I think I might be horny now?

Seriously though - that guy was really cool and that coffee shop was even cooler. I would definitely do work there if I lived in Boston / Cambridge.