Buttshit, Deathcookie: A Performance for Used Clothes

The floor is much the same, maybe cleaner, but not enough to comment on, so I don't, beyond the occasional silent flatulence you weren't meant to hear anyway.  Instead, I retrieve an aim & flame from the pocket of my brown jacket.  I'm the flexi-priest, so I genuflect, for no reason in particular except you want me to at least observe something that's observable to you, which is what performance is.  This all happens in a room that's got paint all over it, and in every corner, piles of used, steaming, fresh out of the laundromat clothes reach near 6 ft.  Chocolate chip cookies are at their peaks, recently microwaved, stenching funny but still good.  Everyone is made by polite entreaty and the civic spirit natural to audiences to put on medical gloves and attempt to go through the used clothes without spilling the cookies or dying, and this we all observe, mutually assuring each other by not even beginning, for some brief time, to wonder when or who calls time.