Big room.
“Take them to the Carnival, let them play the conga
Tonight the tempo feels so right, tomorrow may be wronga.”
“I arrived back to my place to after the party.
Mounds of the usual laundry greeted me, and my antediluvian headache.
Socks, shirts, briefs, pants, a jacket that I never wear, and a sequined thong.
I stopped to consider the thong.
The alien object sitting there, glittering a taunt at me.
“You don't wear these, so why am I here?!” it jabbered.
“I have no idea, but in with the rest of the clothes you go.” I said, as I hideously mixed lights with darks, gentle knits with permanent press.
My work of evil complete, I sat on my davenport and listened to the pained screech of the laundry convulse in its death throes.”