You, the sculptor, shaped our lives, molded us, your offsprings, into the model of your desired likeness. You created masterpieces with the elder and younger; they so like the perfect David, but you are no Michelangelo, and i, the nucleus of this family, am not a piece of clay. i defy your wheel, knife, the kiln that fires your bloodline. i take to the kiln my own David, misshappen like a Picasso, surreal to you.