The dust mote is a speck in a swirling sandstorm. It is one of millions. Yet it is caught up in its own importance, its own life, its own plans. The human walking through the storm thinks only of her own pain. Not of the dust mote, who may die being crushed under her feet. And the fault is all the mote’s too; for it thinks not of the woman who may suffer for days walking through its storm. The woman reaches up to touch the millions of specks that are so torturing her; for she finds them fascinating even after they have given her so much pain. The dust mote gets trapped in her fingers; it has no idea what to do. It feels the soft touch of her hand, studies the lost look on her face. So it wrenches its way out and leaves the storm. It may be one small step, but the dust mote knows it has done the right thing. It only hopes that the others realize her suffering and turn the other way.