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Just dust.

‘Do you ever think about the stories it could tell?’ my aunt said to me once, as she batted great plumes of the stuff from the rug straining the knots of her washing line. Well, I’ve thought about it a lot and the answer is – no stories at all. You see, the dust doesn’t know and or how or when or but. It has no understanding of so, or then or because. Even if it could speak, its stories would have no unfolding of events, no beginnings or endings, just one senseless, single-syllable cacophony of middle.

With dust, the medium is the only message.

Sometimes, the way it gathers around the books on the bookshelf, it makes me think of those first mammals, the tiny prehistoric proto-mice, watching the dinosaurs, waiting for their time to come.

‘Fuck.’

And just like that, it couldn’t be any day at all.

Just like that – it’s now.

That fuck came from me out in the hallway, the moment I discovered that my iPad, and also, wait for it – ‘Oh, fucking hell’ – my iPhone were both busy installing updates, leaving me with nothing to entertain myself with, even though I was absolutely desperate for the toilet.