Operation defilth

The sign read: ARCHAEOLOGICAL SITE AHEAD. UNDER RECONSTRUCTION. THE HALLOWED PRECINCTS OF AN ARCHAIC CIVILIZATION...

As the last wisps of day diffuse into night, the horizon encircles a dismal sight. The harrowed archaeologist scanned the site. She frowned. Narrowed her eyes. With a determined nod, she set forth. 'Operation defilth' was now in progress.

The ruins loomed ahead. Formidable. Daunting. Her task was to odyssey to the far end of the wreckage. To place together the remnants of the lost world...

She was consumed with the shadows that lurked around her.
The cries of outrage...
The looks of disgust...
The foolish laughter...
The congregations of rebels...
The drone of the cicadae...

But all was still now. Everything lay buried under the rubble.
Civilization seemed but a mere delusion, etched into the numbing emptiness of the archaeologist's thoughts.
Smothering every notion that wheedled her to turn away, killing every intuitive idea that whispered sweetly for her to step back, ruthlessly slashing every ribbon of impulsiveness to walk away, she braced herself for the mammoth task...

I stood there. Appalled by the sight. My room. Disaster zone. 'Operation defilth' seemed to have made little headway. My bed lay somewhere under the piles of books, heaps of clothes and stacks of newspaper. After a good five minutes of heaving, I could uncover enough bed space for a what I perceived to be sufficient for a seemingly stout ant to sleep in. (Not what I'd consider that a particularly comfortable supine posture for the more developed life forms.) Ahem. Rather encouraging.

The table, if I remember right, was at the far end of the room. The goal. (Although I must admit I'd have a certain amount of respect for the blighter who'd reckon the exact position of the table, what with all the garbage it housed.) Sweet wrappers, pencil shavings and used mosquito mats gave it an aesthetic appeal.
It did cause me a certain amount of befuddlement as to how I'd wade through the sea of rubbish. But I bravely doused every inclination to scoot and reasoned that Twain's 'Never put off till tomorrow that which can be done the day after tomorrow' (hitherto rigidly followed) fails in times of crisis. (That being the non availability of space to seat one's bottom during the friendly neighbourhood congregations.)

Thus, determined to kill every spec of dirt and to kick out every dust bunny, I ventured forth...

The archeologist bent down to retrieve the remains. She gathered scrolls with parchment frayed at the edges, yellowed with age.
She foraged through the heaps of dust. She uncovered soiled tunics and sheets, rusted bracelets and quaint footwear. She vowed to restore the lost glory...


A good many hours later I emerge...

Unscathed.
Satisfied.
Victorious.

Brandishing the broom that was my faithful companion in this ordeal, I head out of the room. A gust of wind forces the door to bang shut.
The noise resounded through the empty corridors...
I smirk in satisfaction as I read the poster on my door...


ARCHAEOLOGICAL SITE AHEAD. UNDER RECONSTRUCTION. THE HALLOWED PRECINCTS OF AN ARCHAIC CIVILIZATION... ARCHAEOLOGIST: DEE