Once there was a smart young whip of a man. An eurdite artistic man who could not be intimidated by even the largest dictionary in the world. He dedicated himself to the arts. We’ll call him Stanley. Yes Stanley is a good name.
Stanley decided to take up pottery. A noble cause thought he. Soon he was pretty good. He crafted vases and cups and plates and pots. All throughout the land Stanley’s fame grew as more people heard of his pottery skills. He became good but he needed new challenges. Soon vases were too easy and plates too boring. "I’ll make a statue" he declared, "but not an ordinary statue, a living statue, a clay man". So Stanley set about making his clay man, whom we shall call Theodore, because Theodore is also a good name. Especially if you are made entirely out of clay.
So Stanley gave Theodore life. He made him a pottery house to live in and they became friends. Every day Theodore would drive to work in a clay car, down the pottery driveway to his work. Theodore had a job in a bank, putting staples into small pieces of paper or sometimes removing staples from small pieces of paper. He enjoyed his job, but it seemed somehow, empty. Every evening Theodore would drive home and Stanley would give him special meals made entirely out of clay, but somehow the meals wouldn’t satisify. Every night Theodore would go to sleep in a special pottery bed. Every night he would cry tears of clay before he went to sleep. Every morning he would wake up sad, because despite all the amazing things Stanley could make out of clay, the one thing he couldn’t make was clay love.