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Here is an empty stage. On the back wall a projection begins. It shows large chunks of rock and hillside being demolished by explosions.
The custodian enters, dressed in a white protective suit, protective mask and gloves, dragging enormous white bags of garbage attached by long white cords to the shoulders. The custodian moves slowly and with great effort.
The custodian reaches center stage, stops and removes mask.
Custodian (screaming to some point far off stage):
Wraith! Wraith! I know you! I smell your afterbirth! Bowels hemisphered and devoured in the blink of your eye, swipe of your tongue in the wind from the wings of ten thousand Death’s Heads! I know you! Evisceratrix! Hiroshima! Panama! Human rubble, dunes of flesh far as the eye can see the foot can walk—even Napoleon walked to Moscow! I retrace your steps, still visible beneath the marks of German tires and charnel desires! I am your retracer, your interpreter, the ordained custodian of your hermeneutics, the preparator of your estate! (Looking around at the ground) This might even be the future site of my front door1 My exile! My swimming pool! My overflowing catacombs! (Laughing) What fine blueprints projectile trajectories draw! What economy displayed in this, our impervious photographic longing! Our putrefying history!
The custodian suddenly collapses and almost hits the ground, stands upright, almost collapses again and so on all the way off of the stage.
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