Jakarta – the megalomaniac megapolis. The city of omnipresent noise. The city of dust. This city of asphalt, this concrete city. A sixteen-lane highway meanders through Grogol, West-Jakarta, where I live. I became immune – or: stone deaf – for the noise produced by countless vehicles. The exhaust fumes raise the dust though. I kiss the dust every morning, every evening. And living next to a construction site does not elevate the situation. Dust to dust. Desperate – I keep on dusting. A fine grain of dust covers the pages of the books, of the character keys. I go on, and sweep.