I need to do laundry but the pile is staying back at me in anger. it grows steadilly, wanting to be dismembered and to be rid of this pain, as junk. but the pleasure it seeks cannot be met without my doing. but why don’t I complete the chain? the weigh of its own troubles is too much for my arms. or is it? oh laundry god! give onto me the power to bestow these linens and fabrics in their...