There was dirt under the bench. Tiny particles. They seemed to be running about in a trance, in haphazard circles under the action of the rotating fan like pieces of clothing stolen from the washer’s line by a tornado. They must have gathered from myriad origins, and it seemed they were moving in order. It seemed, even dirt was obeying law for once. They were moving round and round, in continuous dizziness, unable to break free, unable to stop, some tiny particles in a large mundane world.