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Something I judge to be the typical cat moshing brought a lamp crashing down -- it may have come down today.

The lamp was shattered in large chunks, with some small fragments here and there. I looked at the break, and I felt the texture of the clay, and I yowled in outrage at the shoddy workmanship. This clay was only fired once. It was fired straight from dry to done, not paused at bisque somewhere in between and allowed to reach full hardness.

Then I giggled at myself, because only the mildly potterygeeky daughter of a potter would yowl over such a thing.
Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes roll unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead.
Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together
Leaving weyrs to wind and weather,
Setting herdbeasts free of tether;
Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?

Have they flown to some new weyr
Where cruel Threads some others fear?
Are they worlds away from here?
Why, oh why the empty weyr?

-- "The Question Song", Anne McCaffrey
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