When did the Sun come here?

I The dust walks me through the corridor, sticking to my clothes, pushing them closer to my skin. The fabric is soft. We speak; our voices fuzzy, embracing the dust. I place the words on my tongue. They cannot reach out from here. But sometimes there are too many, and I have to cough them out into the hallway, where they have built large grey stairs. My feet bare, I place them on the floor. It burns. When did the sun come here? Did you see it approach? Maybe I missed it, but there is no need for it here. We have too much light already. That's why the dust isn't afraid to stick. II I have grown accustomed to the sun. I read sometimes, shifting aside to let it read with me, or if only to let the light. Then I look at you, and the halo of dust around your bony head. You never were part of the Real World. The one with the dust, and the stairs, and the sticky, uncomfortable, neverending clamminess of touch. Step into the water now, and bathe. Hold your toes and pretend to hold the fingers of my hand. It is not the same, but once you wash away I cannot touch you. Drown, and taste the dust rinse off of your mouth. It's all gone now. The water too has dried. When did the sun come here?