What is this thing? Does it exist? Can it be planted? Can it be spread? Can it be shaped to human needs and interests? What are the new containers for it? Who are the growers and cultivators, the ones with the longest game? Who do we want to be when it's harvest time? We are all self-correcting fractals, with feedback loops in the imaginary spaces of the mind. We cannot think but in physical terms. Dust Culture is what happens when the mind loses itself in dust. It is the chalkboard scribblings of memories best left untold. It is the ketamine induced headwinds of delirium. It is the acid-tripping musings of a blind filmmaker. And in the background is the thumping of Charon's oars, as he heaves us towards eternal night. We are lovers in sweet death's embrace.