Pale light filters through dirt stained windows; stained like the windows in old churches, with the dirt that could've been kicked up when the bombs hit, or as recently as the last dust storm. Yet these were designs of sadness and neglect rather than saints and the Virgin Mary. Cracks in the designs allowed a little bit of the outside world to blow in, creating a swirling world of dust dancing about the dust; tiny solar systems of prancing about through invisible eddies.

It fell constantly, a constant meteor shower, with the dust always sticking to the first thing it touched. At first it had been posters, tacks, a swirled purple and pink comforter, a pair of ballet slippers left bent and broken in the corner, a bookshelf shared by books and trophies. Now, the dust just caught on more dust and more dust, dust piled on top of dust, whole ecosystems and mountain ranges of dust.

Nowhere was it worst then in the fishbowl, the one with the Hawaiian hut and skeleton of the goldfish that had died long before all the water in the bowl had finished evaporating. Now the inside of the bowl received a constant rain, but of nothing useful, that had turned the one building village into a one building Pompeii, covered in the ashes of a world gone wrong.