Have you ever heard the dust in a place telling you its story and the ones of its surroundings, of its roots, attaching to your minds the legends of its beginnings? All the letters and images, the sounds it once belonged to, the secrets it beholds! You probably haven’t because you found no time for such things as the whispers of dust be it in the morning or in a fine afternoon spent in an old library among silent book-worms doing their jobs and students guided by librarians and teachers encouraging them to pace themselves down and find some time to read a real book. Well, I have. That’s how I got for myself an allergy to dust: by spending too much time among dusty old books almost nobody wants to read these days. So, I never do the cleaning and dusting: mom does. By the way: my name is Amy. What’s yours?