This is what I ignore while drawing tulips and oranges and sleeping children and bits of sky. Dust. Dust which clusters in the corners and nestles into the tangle of cords beside the sofa. I know that it isn't supposed to be there, but I'm nearsighted and distracted enough not to notice it most of the time. Besides, don't we choose unhealthy things to be our pet luxuries, our self-indulgences? What if dust took on the cachet of cigars or brandy or roquefort cheese? It could be cultivated, undisturbed, as a status symbol... a mark of luxurious idleness... glorious sloth. Sigh. Unlikely. I think of how it makes the shape of light visible, how it is as soft as lint, how it makes no noise and demands nothing of me. I will vacuum, I say.
Just not tonight.