I wake up, dishes to do. Try to get dressed to do dishes, but no I need to do laundry first.
Gather up clothing, open up the washing machine, why the fuck are there dishes here?
Take them to the sink to get them out of the way, but I realize the sink is made out of dirty laundry
This hellish nightmare is unyielding, the chores stretch on as the one gruelling reminder that I'm not truly free, forever chained to these two menial tasks that define my very being.
I leave BinonBi at the door of their kitchen. One always finds one's burden again. But BinonBi teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and washes dishes. They too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to them neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of those dishes, each bubble of soap in that sink, in itself, forms a world. The struggle itself towards washed dishes is enough to fill a person's heart. One must imagine BinonBi happy.