Dust

Dust.

It clings to the walls of this place. It falls thick and thin at the same time, neatly furring the walls, and roughly caressing my mind with it’s dampening…dustiness.

Dust transcends space. It is greater than the sum of its pants. Dust is, and always will be, my world. Dust does not care for things, it just lies on top of them, like a dead rat. Except dust covers dead rats too.

Everywhere I look, the world is just a little bit dimmer for dust. Everything looks a little dead, lifeless and dead. Cold. Fear. Solace.

I remember days when I knew people. You might think this an old ball’s tall tale, but hear me out. Long ago, I used to be thrown around on beaches and bounced on footboards on buses. I spun through the salty air of the south coast like a young sparrow shooting through a hail of Suricata suricatta being thrown at it. I was nimble. I was agile. I tempted twins with my guile.

It pains me to see what I’ve become now. A ball with no purpose. I cannot even remember where I am right now. Such is the decay that has beset my old mind.

Take heed, readers. If you ever have a ball, use it. If you stop needing it, please. Please, do not let it fall into this state. Kill it. Slit it straight through. Spare it my fate. This fate.

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