Terms of Reference

All of your trash is on garbage island, where wind rips through fields of plastic bags, hissing like snakes. Seagulls yap over the rainbow confetti of the shit you threw out. Big piles of your neverending waste are dropped in by helicopter once a month, and a guy in grimy coveralls – he lives on your garbage island – his job is to survey the mountains of your garbage and to push it around with a bulldozer. He pushes it around all day, sometimes stopping to eat food he has foraged, and before night falls he shields his greasy face with his hand and watches the sun set, as other garbage islands in the distance crash into each other, folding into more impressive forms. The foam their crashing creates in the black-blue of the water does not reflect the light.