Dustbunny spent the idle, late summer evening smoking opium from a small wooden pipe, the lazy, gray-white smoke wafting over the already still hive within his head. His thoughts remained unchanged, frozen from progress or decay. Progressive decay.

Decay for progress, or the soft lack of it. Or something. Or as he recalled, nothing. Curling rising. Lift shift dissipate.

The universe resized itself to fit only the contents of his one room cottage. Basking in the half-space of things, the marching of time also became lost in thoughts.

But then he remembered his pipe and remembered not remembering and the things he chose not to remember came back sweetly and gently, cushioned and without malice -- each thought in its time, lifted from the hive within his mind, dancing unthreateningly in the smoke filled space that was he and that he occupied.