Even by the temper of the time, it is a vicious, undeserved blow. The young man
sinks to his knees, his sweaty torso rolls over in the dirt, the dust sticks to his
nakedness, much like fingers to soft clay. The heat from the open blast furnace
cooks him as he lies unconscious a few feet from the snapping flames. His surrealistic
form, one of clay in a kiln, floats into his sub-consciousness, and he is, for the
moment, a spectator of his baking. He feels the intense heat blistering his form
until the molder plucks him from the oven and breathes life back into him.