10.26

There's a fine dust filling my lungs a particle at a time. I know it's here because I see the motes of it swirling in the spartan lancing sunlight through the uncurtained window. The dust is unaffected, but I cannot claim the same apathy. My lungs are filling up. I can't tell exactly what's happening, the process is so imperceptible. But I do know that every five minutes, when I take a deep sigh and rock back on my chair and stretch my lungs out with the breathing, the dust settles a little more and my sighs get ever shallower. I wonder if I'll drown here, in this back office in Lancaster. I wonder if the dust will come slumping out as a dune, selling through my mouth and nose instead of my final breath, the ultimate punishment for my eating company time coming up with my last words for if I die of particulate inhalation. I'll try them out once to see how they feel.
As I speak, the motes once hanging in the streaks of sun from the window now spin, furiously, as if their once-peaceful existence is now enflamed with rage because their quarry has acknowledged their hunt. The dust engages a ceremonial carnival of sorts—a war dance to dedicate themselves once again to the cause. I can see their multitudes, but I accept death peacefully. I know my final words will be heard. If not by human ears, at least by my foe.
"Dust to dust."