The dust settles everywhere - on you, on the furniture, on the window pane, on the plants in your room, the computer and the car hood.
There is no sense in getting rid of it. The more you see work being done in the city the more dust gets produced. They are digging now for more dust.
This dust of Bucharest is the living grit of this city. Fragments from everything around us gather and collapse together. A powder composed out of earth, sand, scruff, dead skin cells, acarian droppings, and a lot of lost particles, blown around. The dust gets everywhere and maybe it is the most basic ingredient of this city. It has a double origin. It is part of the Great Baragan Plain, the proof of desertification and errosion. And it is also rising from the trenches of unfinished construction sites, eating into the guts of the capital. The blocks, the streets, the rooftops are not visible any more trough some fake sepia - the false preciosity of the past. Nicolae Comanescu reports on a city suffering under heat stroke, baking under the Simun, blowing North of Sahara. Bucharest city - the city seen only with dust in your eyes on top of your block of flats. Gone are the big city traps, sprung in this Las Vegas of the South, shining under cazino lights. Left behind is a metropolis griding your teeth to dust.