Folding laundry to the Mad Max: Fury Road soundtrack has revealed to me a pocket universe of mayhem. As if every moment a sock implodes– a star burning it’s last fuel, or when a shirt is folded diagonally an all-terrain-vehicle does a somersault sailing heedless onto some contorted wreckage, a drawer staggers outward erupting in a vociferous conflagration licking up the walls fed incessantly by an awakened backdraft. I feed the beast with more shorts and pants, oil in the engine, but it thirsts for more, insatiable for the sacrificial cotton and mixed nylon sources. Laundry will never be the same.
Mad Max Laundry