Remnants of a supernova were found in Antarctic snow. The space dust could be 20 million years old.

When I was a kid I read with horror the theory of one space scientist who said that moon dust was so deep that any craft landing on the moon would sink into the deep dust and never be heard from again. Men trapped a mile down in gray sterile moon dust -- that image stayed with me and grew like a mental parasite until we finally landed on the moon and blew that accursed egghead's theory to smithereens.
Just a few years ago I was idly clicking on 'random article' on Wikipedia to see what would come up and I got 'cosmic dust.' The article said millions of tons of cosmic dust enter the earth's atmosphere every day. And once again my imagination went into overdrive. Looking up at the dusty blue sky, I began to choke on space dust. Probably radioactive dust settling in my lungs from a long-ago supernova across the galaxy somewhere. What if a dust storm of cosmic dust were heading towards the earth right this instant? We'd be engulfed, smothered with microscopic interstellar motes. A horrible way to go. I stopped sleeping nights, sitting outside in a lawn chair awaiting the inevitable inky black cloud blocking out the stars as a prelude to blanketing the earth. I probably should have gone to see a shrink, but instead I began writing vers libre to combat my anxiety. It seems to have worked. 

But today I'm in trouble again with space dust, because I became so cock-a-hoop about mastering my fears of it that I began studying the language of space dust and soon learned what the particles were telling each other. Their lingo, by the way, is based on the same algorithms that control the Riemann Hypothesis. 
Turns out cosmic dust is really the precursor of meteor mites -- small intergalactic nits that can take over a planet in a matter of days, sucking it dry and leaving behind a lifeless husk. They drift from galaxy to galaxy, sending the dust ahead of them to scout out virgin territory for their predations. The stardust that has been inundating our planet for centuries and managed to enter every nook and cranny of our ecosystem has sent back its report to the meteor mites, and they are on their way here. The dust knows that I know what they've been up to, and they want to shut me up, permanently, before I can expose them -- which would allow the Earth to prepare for their arrival.
So I'm on the lam, hiding out in dumpsters and discarded telephone booths in old hotels. When you read this, if you read this, for pete's sake contact the nearest NASA office. At this late date we've only got 72 more hours before the meteor mites arrive. The only way to stop them is with good old American know-how, and flypaper; put enough of that in orbit and they'll never reach our planet. 
If I don't make it out alive, tell Halle Berry I love her . . .