Dust is always a tell tale sign you've been here for far too long. It's like a reminder that you're always sitting there, same place, same time, same movements. The breaths you take today will be the same you take tomorrow. Dust is everywhere in this room. I brush it away but it returns, like an unwelcome visitor, to choke me until I cough a wretched cough. I can't stop coughing dust, now. I'm afraid one day I may become the dust, someone will be here to brush me away, but I'll continue to return, against my will, for weeks, months, even years. I'm terrified for the future. Horrified by my past. Unsurprised about the present, though. I see the same markings in the dust that I have for weeks now. It hasn't changed since it first fell across these old wooden shelves, coating the books whose words upon which my eyes gazed with sheer curiosity. These days, however, the dust has covered or worn away these words. My eyes are no longer thirsty with curiosity, therefore I have no need to investigate these words. I could go outside, but the ice and snow of this barren winter wasteland holds no place for a weak soul such as myself. I'm simply, unequivocally, trapped, isolated, cut off. So, I stay here, slowly wearing away to the dust that I brush off this broken down furniture, I repeat my same steps day by day. One day, someone will brush me away from their broken down furniture, placing their footsteps into me as I coat their wooden floors, dimly lit hallways. One day, I will grace their books, preventing their curious eyes from quenching their thirst. I will be a ghost here. And I will continue to return. Against my will.