Dust

"its world is dust while its plane of composition is blood," wrote Ruth
of the upper  room in the baroque house. I always felt something velvety
about this room with the dust motes illuminated by an indirect light
filtering through a transept over a door downstairs. Velvety or silky,
fluid and red. Then there was the depressing drizzle of a futuristic Los
Angeles. The darkness creeping into every cranny. Then there were
thousands and thousands of people to dig out: smoke, dust, gas
inhalation, so choking I could not cry or cry out, all those vibrating,
thundering fiery forces rolling through the dust. ash and dust. all on
one of the most beautiful days of the year. (some language pasted in
from CNN live). The overwhelming reaction is shock, not anger, I hope.

--
Donald Wellman
http://eagle.dwc.edu/wellman/index.htm