Dust

Dust hangs in the air all day, creating a strange fog in the sky and obscuring the sun. The resulting phenombra gives Dakar a strange science fiction-like feel and the people walk around looking morose.

The dust that manages to creep into my house, my office, my bag settles on surfaces and coats them as if they hadn't been dusted in a thousand years.

"The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep."

--the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (1919), TS Eliot