It’s the great drama of our routine lives. It’s the great never-ending circle. The great inescapable. House cleaning. It goes back to the cave dudes and dudesses. That battle against dirt and mess. Like the cockroaches, it seems that it will be here long after we are gone. No matter who we are where we are, there is just no way around it. It’s going with us in our coffins. I am lying there dead. A dust mite crawls up my nose. Suddenly I sneeze. The dirt over my grave and the top of the coffin shoot up like a rocket. It’ll be enough to wake the dead.
dust and more dust
acumulates, then I clean
then dust and more dust
Uncle Bardie's Stories & Such 