I am one with the dust

I am one with the dust. I breathe in the toxins, deep into my lungs. I play in the dust as if it were dandelions. The puch surrounds me as if in some Tarkovsky film. I look to my felines, wondering just how much they can take of this. I daren't touch it. I musn't wipe clean this miasma, this residue of a city of ash and cigarette amblings. I vacuum, yes, and do the dishes. But this chemical soup of desolation and fur is all that I have, all that I know.

They tell me (they "again") that it's bad for me and those around me. They don't understand the seven humours, the alchemy involved in removing this transubstantial mass. It would be so easy, especially with the .99cent store so close. Just pop in, get some new chemical to blast the old chemical, the memorialized issue, and wipe clean the void. But the void is good I say. The breathing difficulty brings me closer to God. What if this is Angel dust, or fairy dust. Dare I smoke it? Certainly not. What doesn't kill me makes me stranger, not necessarily stronger.

So be careful of what you clean. It may just be your soul.