Dust has always intrigued me. Accumulating like history that refuses to be ignored. There’s a glass milk bottle, a bible, and an old torn up bike tire in the corner of the room. The old wood floor whines when make my way over, begging to be beaten down further. Dust covers the floor and the old items in the corner. The milk bottle has survived in peace without being put on sale at some vintage shop being constantly eyed by young recently engaged women. It has embraced its history, waiting for someone to find it and stop to reminisce on the good old days. The days when bibles weren’t abandoned in empty houses. The days when children rode their bike. I don’t know when last lived in this empty falling down house but it could’ve been anyone. It’s all of our stories and It’s all of the stories that have descended into the soil already.