Modeling clay is a stage of psychosexual development unto itself, squeezed between the anal and the phallic. These wet mounds are terrifyingly shapeless — amorphous metamatter in danger of suffocating the world. It’s no wonder that the formulas we give to children all crack, dry and fall away; their oxidation protects us from having to live with the consequences of creation. We give kids extruders and presses and kits to mimic burgers and cakes and candies so that they can get a head start on their consumption and careers. Beating salty cellulose into molds drowns a weapon that geniuses and morons might have used to threaten the species. The paper plans that come with these toys protect us — they keep us from building too many new worlds on the old, from seeing each new cup of clay as a chance to plunge the aged into darkness.