If the dust cannot be removed then maybe I can learn to dance barefoot through it. Kicking up motes into the light where it floats around me. Whispered words of old stories I no longer believe. Dust of dead memories made beautiful swirling there among the sunlight and barefeet.
And when I go, the only evidence to future eyes of my having been here will be the Arthur Murray dance steps left on the dusty floor.
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