The sound of dust is the buzz of a fly, tone or timbre blurred away, no soul left in the sound, just a movement of air molecules, a residual vibration, drained of colour, bereft of body. Dust. The eventual echo of entropy. The partner of neglect arrives invisibly, silently, cannot be witnessed laying its soft foundations like the frost that comes in the night. Frost is water dust. Staleness of old bread. Old books – places where you thought dust could find no entry – between the leaves of letters, in the pages of old books, dust leaves its scent. Like the poor, like the passed, dust is always with us.