The Mother of All Evils[/caption]
Dust. Dust everywhere. Dust up the river. Dust in the counting houses. Dust atop the rooftops and down the chimneys. Dust creeping into the collier-brigs, dust settling between the toes of the subway captain, and above in the yards of a great (and dusty) city. The fortune cookie that accompanied the newsboy’s take-out Beef Chow Fun last night read, EXPECT VACUUMING. The photographer dreads dust the way vampires (old school) fear garlic. He glides in across his dusty parquet like a thief and is put in mind of astronauts doing their bouncy-bouncy across the Mare Tranquillitatis, clouds of lunar poussière rising to envelope them to their shins.
The Garum Factory 