Motes

He turns the fan lessening the musty heat in his musty room off. Afterwards, he considers it. He takes the fan’s cover off, traces the dust on the blades. He considers his fingers and the congregated dirt of many days finally on his fingertips. He traces the blades of the fan itself. How sharp, he thinks. He pauses. Sees motes of dust conjured by the noon sun dancing and swirling, whether in an organized way or chaotically he cannot ascertain. He does not realize it, but minutes have already passed just by his watching these bits of dirt, insignificant. Then again, he really doesn’t have much to do, what is time anyway.