when i was thirteen i began listening to billie holiday. and her dust. i was hypnotized by the dust, its sound, how it would never be blown off with a breath. it's been recorded, it is as it was, frozen in time:

stuck in amber; improbable, but true,

immovable, billie locked in her position of grief
then
now
forever

with no possibility of a new beginning. the needle swings its arc, drops on the first song. one more tired revolution around the sun